


The Ladybird Special

by Ostler



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2018-04-02 03:07:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4043488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ostler/pseuds/Ostler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An engineer, a fry cook, and a ticked off race car get caught in the middle of a delemma.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Trouble begets trouble

Glossy red coat, shining engine parts and all cylinders running to tell the whole world she purred like a kitten. I could’ve almost and I do mean almost melted into the driver’s seat just to butter my hands on that pretty wheel. Alas, it wasn’t meant to be. The sports car parked beside me on that freeway before the starting line. Tinted windows didn’t reveal the driver who sat behind the wheel. I could only hear the same smug laughter as he revved the red muscle car’s engine.

 

While everyone else is preening I took one look at my messy black hair, when did I wash it again? Cerise eyes study the stubble on the long thin face in the rear view mirror. Everything about me physically is long and thin. When was the last time I had a good meal?

 

“What a nice car,” spoke the idiot in the  _other_  muscle car, darn brunette called himself Vince, “For a heap of junk.”

Yeah, yeah, everyone had their laugh, all I cared about was putting some food on my plate and I don’t have any legal means to earn some money right now. I yanked on the seatbelt careful not to push on the gas of my rusted VW bug. I promised my late wife a lot of things I wouldn’t do when she was alive. Street racing being third thing under guzzling coffee and smoking. Ever since my wife’s death and my hometown’s destruction, a fugitive engineer doesn’t have a lot of cash for basic survival. The tiny slip of a teenage girl walks into the middle of the street.

 

On starts the race. Mr. Smug and Vince pulling out neck and neck. I turned on my turn signal waiting for her to clear the road. Mr. Smug bashing Vince’s flame painted bumper. The race starter clears off the road in three . . . two . . . one . . .

 

FSSSSSSH ZOOOM SHHHH SHWAAAAAHHHHH

 

My bug’s F-16 fighter jet engine blasts her down the road. The hum of aviation gyros. My creation didn’t look like much. I reversed the wheel’s direction. My bug zipped past the muscle cars. Mr. Smug crashed into the cactus. Vince hit a ditch. Parking the car I rolled down the window to honk and wave.

 

“Have a nice drive,” I bragged, driving into the finish line.

 

I parked to collect my reward, wasn’t first place but I won. Don’t tell anyone I cased the highway before I built the car. As an engineer, I had two unfair advantages. One, I supercharged a monster and pretended to be dumb just so the drag racers would let me into their “social circle” thinking I was easy pickings. I bet money I’d beat them and there are lots of suckers who won’t say no to twenty bucks especially racers who underestimate my “hunk of junk”. While I collected my reward I took five minutes to hide my smug satisfaction that I knocked cocky kid down a peg or two. He was busy shaking sand out of his pants and Mr. Smug was probably finding out the joy of prickly pears.

 

. . . I don’t like nuisance children but I’ve been around the block and my wife was a kindergarten teacher. I’m not that bad when it comes to handling kids right?

 

For a while Street Racing paid good money, I was making a hundred bucks a night but I drew the line when one irate racer shoved a thousand dollars in my hand. I gave them all a refund by paying them back, with fifty dollars less than when I started this week. Pulling out of the racing circuit and counting my lucky stars that the kids didn’t know I was a wanted man made life kind of easy. I put a blanket over the nitro tank in my VW bug.

 

“Hello welcome to K.O. Knockout Burgers, how can I help you?” said one bored kid over the speaker in the drive through.

 

I mumbled my order. The scrappy youth looked quite responsible if miserable is what responsible meant. I was surprised no one recognized me. The murder I was framed for was leaving my hometown as a giant crater. Ghostwater Springs was collapsed inside a wormhole. I didn’t recognize him, he didn’t know me.

 

. . . For now . . .

“Police officials are asking locals if you’ve seen this man.” Blared the TV before I turned it off and yanked out the switch.

 

“Ha-Hey! Mister those damages come out of my paycheck,” he growled just when blue eyes missed my smiling face that was on the wanted poster on TV. His name tag read Jack Darby. The boy; shaggy black hair, a thin face of square jaw, and not a lot of muscle beneath the blue jeans and T-shirt. “If you don’t behave I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

 

I placed the on/off switch in Jack’s outstretched hand and stumbled. Frozen in fright. My hand went through one black hole, and came out through his chest. A scream erupted. I clamped the boy’s mouth shut. This situation was eh, delicate, to say the least being careful to pull my hand out while it brushed the nerve endings of his internal organs. Wormholes I found out are unpredictable by nature, my hand accidentally cupping the boy’s rapidly beating heart was unpleasant even slimy at best.

 

“Look, Jack,” I explained gently. The computer in my bracelet helped stabilize the wormhole for closure. Phew, no organs falling out and no wounds are a good sign, “It’s a complicated story. You . . . just need to not believe everything mass media tells you okay?”

 

Jack nodded frightfully beneath my hand.

 

“Now,” I licked my lips and whispered, tobacco breath probably didn’t help things, “I need you to not scream. I’m going to remove my hand. You will calmly” Jack started to hyperventilate, “STAY CALM . . .  _calmly_  ask a doctor, someone you trust to keep a  _secret_ look you over okay? Okay, good believe me it’s an accident. I mean you no harm but please remember only share this with someone stalwart, someone you trust because trust me, if you tell the cops about me. They’ll jump to all the wrong conclusions okay?”

I took my hand off of Jack’s lips and slowly sneaked back from whence I came. A malfunction, I forgot to adjust the controls to the wormhole device again. Jack ran outside to the dumpster. Puking reached my ears. The poor boy, I stayed behind to keep an eye on him. All I got was him stumbling back. He nearly fell over while mounting his motorcycle.

 

"Arcee,” he said, “Can we visit my Mom first?”

 

Surprisingly a female voice answered, and it was from the bike.

 

“Sure thing,” she exclaimed and rolled forward, the teen wasn’t driving her, “Are you alright?”

 

“No I’m not alright,” he bit out with a groan, “I think I’m sick.”

 

The whine in his voice as he pulled away. I had to see him! I needed to make sure the kid was alright, but a reminder stopped me from opening that car door. Bodily fluids slicked up all over my arm, the car door. I accidentally shoved that TV dial straight into his diaphragm. If they did an x-ray, how were they going to remove it by traumatizing him further because they’d have to get it out by cutting him open?

 

“We’re heading to base,” commanded the motorcycle.

 

“But my Mom she’s a nurse.” Jack stuttered, odd he didn’t command himself like he did in the restaurant but good grief a man just plowed a hand through his chest. Would we be shaken too if we experienced what Jack experienced? “She could do an X-ray or something.”

 

“Don’t play dumb I saw what happened,” stated a voice of a young woman, actually just the voice who I was guessing was Arcee and on a softer note mentioned, “For everyone's sake we’ll see Ratchet first then have your mother called to Base.”

 

It was sweet, almost a plea and Jack’s mute nodding seemed all the answer Arcee needed.

 

I didn’t see the kid again that day. I hope he’s okay.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Throw in the Monkey Ratchet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arcee goes to Ratchet for help.

Jack’s focus faded from the concrete tunnel into the open concrete room of the Autobot’s base. The former missile silo had plenty of stairs and platforms with metal guardrails. They weren’t used for much until the humans got there. It was hard to keep eye contact with a tiny human. A being barely coming up to Arcee’s knee.

It made all the harder for Arcee to believe Jack was only sixteen years old. A teenager in human years, developmentally only a few years her junior or less. Jack hugged his abdominals. He slumped to the floor once his cheek hit the cool concrete wall. Lifting him up in her arms, the kid weighed a quarter the size of a mini-con. Small, delicate, puny described him all over when she carried him into Med Bay. The orange and white ambulance Autobot whose optics widened in shock and dialated in horror ran to scoop up Jack from Arcee. She mentally kicked herself for remembering her doctor treated robots, sentient automatons, not mammals.

She forgot the kid was only a different species. The reminder became hard to believe when he took up so little space on the Med-bay’s sickbed. Autobot sized berth’s were definitely larger than a tiny teen.

He was not a little Autobot new-frame.

Plus that grungy human was slightly disturbing. He wasn’t loud or young, he even stunk if the quality of his visible cleanliness was anything to go by. She only saw the silhouette of shadows behind the window blinds. Worse when the man’s hand went through Jack’s chest, the only thing separating her from ripping that man’s limbs off was Optimus Prime’s house rules. No show robot forms in public places. No harming innocent humans. What disturbed her more was he looked physically uninjured. Usually knife hands leave a nasty hole and excessive leaking, by experience she’d seen war wounds like that in the past.

She relayed the information of all she’d seen to Ratchet. Ratchet’s face slackened in surprise. He loomed his gigantic form over Jack. Barely a gentle to prod to say yup, there was no smashing of the abdominal cavity and yes there was something in there. Jack Darby wasn’t supposed to make the metal detector’s go off but make them go off he did. At every possible turn

“Human biology,” Ratchet scoffed, “Why can’t they be simple,  _normal_  creatures without all these nerve endings and extensive wiring malfunctions.”

“It’s called a nervous system,” Arcee argued back, “And they do have a support structure it’s called a skeleton.”

“Life is much simpler with an exoskeleton,” Ratchet explained, “No paper cuts, none of these bruises and if he ever had a minor injury he could weld it shut.”

“Ratchet, you’re a doctor, why aren’t you panicking,” Arcee growled, voice on near hysterics as she paced all over. Ratchet crossed his arms and leaned back into an ignorant shrug.

“If I panic, would it be beneficial I run to Jack’s mother screaming?” Ratchet droned, “I prefer rationalism.”

If he wanted to panic he’d have had a heart attack stellar cycles ago. Snark seemed to be a much better coping mechanism compared to the bubble of fear he felt rising up his processors. Ratchet merely took the boy up, cradled in his hand. He thanked his lucky stars Raphael and Miko weren’t here to see this. Raphael was an unusually mature boy for his age, and very easy to forget he’d never seen the horrors of war. Miko could’ve gone into hysterics than gushed over how “cool” or “awesome” the situation was even though a near death experience is not funny. He still didn’t get the reason why she liked to see giant robots crush each other.

 “It’s not the actions that have made Jack sick but merely the shock of having an entire human hand phased through him.” Ratchet explained. He didn’t try to help the children with their homework anymore but secretly a few subjects fascinated him. Being a scientist and medical professional himself, he didn’t turn a blind eye when Raphael was explaining to Bumblebee about the biology report of a human skeleton. “There is indeed something stuck in Jack’s body.  Otherwise he wouldn’t be turning up anything upon my metal detecting equipment. An energy signature departed from his place of work and a fascinating device.”

He pushed a button. Up turned the video of an especially rounded and rusty car he knew to be called a Volkswagon Bug. Yet it hummed with energy, it maneuvered tight curves with ease.

“This man you’ve described,” Ratchet exclaimed, “Seems to be more of a builder than a combatant.”

“He hurt my partner,” Arcee snapped.

Ratchet’s gaze withered in the motorcycle’s angered direction. A good piece of built equipment is built equipment. An alt mode was simply a means to an end, nothing more. Considering the airplane engine installed inside the Rust Bug next to the nitro gas enhancement.

“. . . Do not . . . say . . . a word . . .” Ratchet exclaimed carefully, “There is nothing in space or on earth that can rival cybertronian technology.”

 

It still didn’t mean he didn’t appreciate a well-constructed design and only encountering a small problem for a change. When Jack’s mother June explained everything further. Ratchet’s momentary elation deflated. He wished humans chestplates actually weren’t fused shut beneath the skin. Then June wouldn’t be slightly bawling because the On/Off switch to the TV wouldn’t be lodged somewhere inside his esophagus.  He wouldn’t have surgery from an army surgeon (thank agent Fowler) who scratched his brow at how something that big got lodged there without . . . choking.

Jack recieved several stitches and a lollipop for his troubles but every time he saw a VW Bug he hugged his ribs and stifled a scream.

 


	3. A pain in the Cactus.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack gets a get-well card. Knockout tattles. Jaiden meets a giant robot. We get more word on Vince? . . . Maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since I updated this thing. I scrapped the roughdraft and kept what chapters I liked. Now let's see if a better planned premise will keep the story tightened together.

When I fled Jasper, Nevada and into the Rockies, Nebraska the abandoned mine was the first thing I found. The canyon opened akin to parted lips. The place was quiet. It wasn’t on any maps, internet or otherwise, and the perfect place to be left alone but I never was truly “alone” alone. That niggling feeling of guilt threatened to tug my heart to join the Titanic.

My smiling face on the TV. I couldn't believe they used my driver's license photo at least the old one. I looked at the TV report. I glanced at my rear-view mirror. A concaved man of my former glory, how the hell could I even be this recognizable. I took out a duffel bag with a few inventions. The ionizing spray, sprayed my hair a good shade green at the root and the racing circle. Damn! Everyone I have interacted with would know my face from being there for an extended time. 

' _Is that kid okay?'_ I thought to myself. That frycook's pinpricked eyes. His blue gaze wide with fear. I couldn't shake the worry I put that kid into trouble.

To avoid the authorities, I had driven myself, and the car, to a small cave system in the opposite direction of the race track. The desert sun provided enough light to see my VW Bug for what it really was, shabby on the outside and a surprise beneath the hood. I patted it affectionately. I'm not personifying it but a little of one's self goes into one's creations after all.

I checked my reflection again with a squint. Hair changed? Check. Grow a beard? It takes me ages to grow even stubble yet the rest of my hair is shoulder length! Consarn it! I'm not the only lean faced man in town. Still a bit of camouflage might make it easier to avoid getting caught. I activated the wrist computer. A black hole rippled open enough to show internal organs and tell me what needs replacing.

It was a miracle none of the prosthetic implants got rejected.  When I first installed the wormhole generator into myself, my heart was the first thing to start getting fried. The electric generator replacing it has been humming along smoothly. The lungs were the next to slowly burn out. A new prosthetic inhalation system helped pull oxygen through the body. Vents installed under either lowest rib vented away heat. I'd been through the process enough times I forgot how horrifying it was to have foreign elements in the body.

' _No you didn't you moron,'_ berated the little inner voice, ' _C'mon! You just left some random kid in severe trauma and didn't check to see if he was all right!'_

That may be true but I can't just walk in to the front desk and tell the receptionist, “Hi! I’m a wanted fugitive and I just stuck a doohickey through Jack.”

What if his mother was there? What if she had a mean left hook? I’m a scientist I can build prosthetics but I can’t build teeth. My wife has been confronted by such parents. Running is a viable option with angry Mama Bears . . . or Social Services. Sneaking into the hospital to apologize to him is also out of the question, and creepy. It's even more absurd to hack the government again and erase my crimes, again. It was still my fault yet not my fault.

"Maybe I could send a card?" I asked myself, "Just walk up and ask? Nawww. Phobias follow major traumas. I'll just sneak in a card and not sign it. He'll fill in the blank of who he thinks sent it. He'll tell that person thank you and everyone will be happy. Yeah that sounds bonhomie enough."

"Filbert!" yelled a voice.

 I darn near choked on my cigarette. I closed the wormhole quickly and whirled to find who sought me. Vincent's usually shaggy red hair stood up at odd angles. His leather jacket had been ripped in places. Covered in dirt, and glaring out of two holes in that mask of dusk cloying his boyish mean looks, the brat looked like a puffed up squirrel. The tabloids crunched up in his opposite hand.

I was too tired to deal with this bologna. Jack the Frycook came first. If he died, than that really  _would_ have been real blood on my hands and his mother would kill me. Don't get me wrong, the protective instincts the common brown bear has when protecting her young is a fascinating parrallel to the angry, overworked single parent. She'd be justified. I'd be screwed. The little kid shoving a wanted poster in my face however.

"This is you isn't it," he demanded.

I smashed the end of my cigarette into the palm of my fist. I was too busy stuffing the cig into my pocket until he smashed the paper to my face.

"Isn't it!" he growled.

I didn't answer him for quite some time. My prosthetic motor was still coming off its heart attack. Smiling face from a hopeful young man. My freaking driver's license picture . . . when I had that driver's license.

"Congratulations you found a  photo that looks like me." I professed.

"You murdered a small town," he snapped.

_No I didn't you little witch,_ thought I, but close to the truth.

"I did not," I answered carefully, "The man who originated its destruction? He . . . is dead . . ."

I sort of erased all evidence of his existence. I mean Ghostwater Springs and all evidence I was born there died with the small town.

"There's something you're not telling me and before you leave I am going to get to the end of it!" warned Vince, cute now the stalker has a stalker, what a creep.

I raised my hands in surrender. Crud-eating grin crawled across my five o'clock shadow. I reached into my free pocket. Vince rammed a fist into my diaphragm. I wheezed out two vents and one mouth.  The cigarette shook in my fingers as I brought to my lips to get it lit. Vince swung a straight jab. I ducked and crunch went the window.

"Ow," Vince hissed.

The jumpstart of nicotine in my veins slowed the jitters between my fingertips.

"What the hell are you going to do to me?" Vince hissed, "Kill me? Hide the body? Do your worst!"

I did do my worst.I spent a few more seconds taking a long drag on my cigarette, huffed smoke out my nostrils. The heat burned as I slowly made my way to the shaking lad step by steady step. Vince struggled pulling his hand out of the windshield. 

"Y-you don't scare me," he stuttered. 

The boy put a leg to my door. He yanked on his arm aggressively and a lot harder. I grabbed his bicep. The young man's brow broke into a sweat. The rest of his body started thrashing harder. I bit my wrist computer, a small vortex started to swirl around his wrist on one side of the car door. It swirled on the other side of the car door. I simply guided his hand out and opened the driver's seat for the emergency medical kit.

The kid was too shocked to stop me guiding him into the seat to get a better look. His wrist sported skid marks and minor lacerations but muscles and tendons looked fine. I applied a small tube of benzoit, to rub into the lacerations and stop the bleeding. I glanced at the window. The wormhole surrounding the windsheild thankfully faded away.  Vince was starting to get that glazed look in his eyes. Quite annoying.

"Kid, what you just saw no one is going to believe you," I exclaimed, "Those that will believe you will take you away from your safe and familiar home. You're going to end up living a false life where you never see your friends again and they'll tell you to live by a new name, a new backstory, and tell you to never be the man you are now for the rest of your life. Now tell me Vincent, what part of me is sadistic enough to do that to a kid when the Government does that very well with the witness protection program, hmmm?"

Vince looked like he swallowed a lemon. I finished bandaging his wrist and going back to my packing. 

"I thought as much," I finished, "But if you want to call the cops you better do that now. Conversing with a convict is liable aiding and abetting. Cops will arrest you for being at the scene of the crime and doing nothing to stop me."

I even handed him my track phone. Another few hours behind bars. Another wormhole phasing me out the back of a holding cell or interrogation room. Another nightmare left behind in my wake. The same old song and dance number. Vince, at least, got out of the driver's seat. I could pull the blanket over the nitro. The redhead was disheveled when he arrived. Weirdly, he's usually preening around the ladies.

I found in my possessions the money I hadn't paid my dinner for yet. A nice kick to one already downed but hey, I had to write something back in reply. An apology note would be more appropriate if extremely absurd. An old K.O. Burger wrapper, no, this would not do. I can build better. I took the materials back to the back of my car. I pulled open the trunk and the tongue of plywood I pulled out unleashed two table legs. I bent over my work on the used card table folding over paper. Wire weaved through the edges. A couple pretty blue rocks at my boot heel I noticed. Ah pretty! My wife loved when I made stupid gadgets like this. Glue, glue, where's the glue. My fingers fumbled over more wire? Oh well, ya work with what ya got I suppose.

I was so engrossed in my project I'd never heard Vince dial the cops yet. 

"Vincent have you dialed the authorities yet?" I inquired, I put away my tools. "I'll be leaving from here to Wyoming since we're somewhere around Nebraska.You'll have approximately eighteen hours fifteen minutes to get back to your home."

I pushed the half-card table back in the trunk. I plunged the card in my jacket pocket. Yet what only answered in Vince's wake was an echoing silence. Steel beams curled from the crumbly earth. Vince's prone form seemed stuck in adjusting his weight from foot to foot.

"Vincent?" I inquired again.

No answer. He dropped the phone starting to backpedal, tripped, and scuttled backwards as fast as the crab walk could carry him. I glanced back at the normally austere teen. He dove for his car a little farther away from my own.

"What twisted your knickers in a knot?" I stated.

A rumble rollicked all who stood beneath it. Following the resounding crash a gigantic hand clawed into the ground beneath us. Vince screamed. I choked on a cigarette. Metal whined and a speaker hissed. Tongue lolling in the metal man's throat. He pulled up his opposite appendage or what's left of it and crawled after us. His maw roaring inhumanly. Purple veins glowed down his throat.

"Lead foot kid! Lead foot!" I yelled to Vince, "Get outta here!"

"I can't!" Vince cried. He jammed the key into the ignition.

Whatever the thing was, one army crawl craned fifteen feet a stride. The wheels on vince’s car spun out on soft silt. The beast jammed a finger into the back of it. I slid into my driver’s seat, turned the key, and punched my bug into reverse. The metal man’s visage crunched against my bumper. Call it a fluke, or call it a miracle the beast collapsed in a heap on the abandoned mine floor.

Armor plating so oxidized just the rust itself held it together. The light left his eyes. The humanoid face twisted in feral rage. His entire existence seemed hollow in that instant. Hollow and aching.

“You’re not a metal man or a metal beast aren’t you?” I asked the beast/man/thing.

“What about my poor car!” Vince yelled.

“It’s a cosmetic fix,” I called back, on second thought, “Come here.”

Vince pouted. He slammed the car door and kicked a tire in all his frustration. Muttering under his breath about stupid monsters and their car piercing fingers, he stopped dead in his tracks to survey the damage to his beautiful ride. Vince’s fingers gripped his hair at the ends. He let out a keening whine through gritted teeth. Tears freshly shed over his poor, grey, car.

I strode to the boy’s side to put a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged me off as soon as he felt me.

“Go away and leave me alone,” he snarled.

“Vince you just got a giant hole put into your pride and joy,” I  pointed out, “And this . . . metal man . . . while not part of the deal sure beat seeing a wormhole in a windshield huh?”

“What is he?” Vince wondered.

“He’s dead,” I guessed, “I think.”

“What do you mean you think?” Vince snarled, glaring in my direction, “Robots don’t die, they can’t die and that would make this thing.”

“A formerly live sapient being,” I supplied.

“A zombie!” interjected Vince.

I closed my mouth on that last statement. After some small consideration, Vince provided  a good point. The puncture wound in the chest cavity proved deep enough to impale some sort of vital organ. The deterioration showed he had been dead a while or she? I don’t know I’ll just stick to the first pronoun.

“That too,” I concluded, “That too. Still let’s get this fixed.”

“Fixed! It broke my car!” yelled Vince.

“I meant the whole,” I exclaimed waving to Vince’s impaled car. The metal man’s crushed face. My ride still stuck in the back, “Mess. Poor giant robot but c’mon your car? Really?”

“I have. To drive. Home!” Vince snapped.

“It’s a cosmetic fix.” I cheered.

The mech’s hand fell off straight on top of the trunk. Vince’s poor muffler gurgled in protest. My smile struggled to lift the corners of my lips. Yeesh okay so not as . . . cosmetic. I could fix it later.

“Priorities, priorities,” I muttered. I locked the VW bug while assessing the damage. First thing first, maybe my wife was still rubbing off on me. “This used to be a living person . . . robot . . . Metal Man considering the similarities more to biology then robotics yet he’s fully robotic.”

“Lame,” Vince drawled, “That derp face is creeping me out.”

“Vincent!” I warned just when the brat lifted his foot to give it a good kick, “Do you have any idea what he can do? Or if the Metal Man has any friends?

“I know exactly what I’m doing,” he snapped matter of factly, arms crossed with a huff. “I mean it’s just a car, not like I put tons of work into it or nothin’.”

“Sorry about that,” I apologized.

As much as I hate the kid, I can sympathize with hard work going down the drain. I yanked a comforting arm around his shoulder. He gasped through his nostrils. A choke escaped his lips. I gave the awkward pat-pat and then just let go. Vince dashed forward onto his knees, choking and spluttering on fresh air.

“You stink!” Vince wheezed.

“I bathe whenever I can,” I quipped, “At least until the government started checking hotel rooms . . . and the past couple days . . .”

I sniffed my shirt.

“Gyugh okay I stink,” I conceded, “First order of business, Let’s see to separating the machines and give this metal man a proper burial.”

“It’s just a robot,” Vince muttered.

‘ _Why are you worried?’_ asked that pesky inner voice. The one that usually involves the little devil in one’s ear.

“Whatever he is, robot or something else,” I dismissed with a shrug. I tapped my lower lip, “It seems wrong to leave a living being like this. From the Earth to the Earth as it were.”

“But what if he’s not of this planet?” asked Vince.

I laughed, Vince’s hypothesis stemmed from pure science fiction but if the government invented these robots they wouldn’t function on their own, not without an advanced AI and stuck in a gov’t warehouse. There was no evidence yet that he didn’t come from another planet. Vince dusted off an insignia on Metal Man’s chest. He probably belonged to someone, someone royally peeved for smashing something that seemed well loved to the hilt.

“Then we follow the rules of respect we give each other and pass on that same respect to our Metal Man over here,” I concluded, “Thus like our writers of Star Trek and Star Wars have imagined we don’t have to be in the same universe far, far away to treat people with the same hospitality as anyone else close, close to home.”

Vince leered in my direction.

“What,” I remarked, “I’m not pulling this out of my butt. Science Fiction takes more inspiration from Human History than it does from actual science. It’s just global affairs with a hint of science thrown into it depending on the genre. Compare two books, it’s quite fascinating.”

Vince rolled his eyes. He yanked at the finger pinning his car down. I didn’t have the heart to tell him the finger won’t budge. He was lucky it didn’t pierce the driver’s seat. If there was any way to preserve what was left in the trunk. I fiddled with the wrist computer and the kid yelped back as he watched his trunk door “disappear.” He yanked out an overnight bag and a huge suitcase.

Odd? Vince races illegally but he goes to high school and lives in a house. He traveled eighteen hours just to punch my lights out. The overnight bag is supposed to be for overnight yet large suitcase, lives in car. Vince just pulled out his school backpack and yet another bag of personal items. Something in me twinged, was he doing alright at home?

No! No don’t put any thought into that. The street racers are an eclectic bunch. They are regulars at the ER and know all the nurses by name. One of the ones in charge called “Tsundere Darby”? No, no Nurse Darby. Mrs. Darby actually was an overworked mom.  I avoided injury at those times to avoid being found. Curiosity be danged.

“You’re going to have to give me a ride,” Vince concluded.

“Quite right I should,” I agreed, “In turn could you help me find a hole big enough to put him in?”

“How are we even going to move him,” Vince interjected, “He’s huge.”

“Only the size of a small car.” I’d noted, “And his overall composition has gotten him to lose an unhealthy amount of weight if he was a living man. As a robot a little deterioration never hurt anything.”

Crunch and down dropped the jaw.

“I stand corrected as an engineer I find this exceedingly wrong on so many levels,” I added. The poor thing, a beautiful work of art just left to rust like stolen scraps of twine makes the builder within me weep, “Let’s find the hole first then work from there.”

At the time, most of me had decided the Metal Man was just an exceedingly well crafted robot. Vince’s hypothesis, couldn’t be closer to the truth. What’s the worst that could happen? We fanned out. Vince in one direction towards the sunset. I went in the opposite direction towards the ruins and couldn’t help but get distracted by something.

Everything was larger than when I first noticed. Normally for a mine you dig into a cave and dig down. This mountain was carved out like the yolk out of a hardboiled egg. The mining car tracks didn’t go down they went in circles. In fact, the whole thing was gutted just right that if the mine blew the only thing that went down.

“Do you think this place was the scene of a Metal Man murder?” I inquired to no one in particular, Vince maybe, the kid was disheveled when he got here.

“Heck if I know,” Vince shrugged, “Oh wait, more rocks. Yeah if he died here he should’ve been bleeding all over the place, not slashed in two, jammed into MY CAR by a finger!”

“It’s a cosmetic fix,” I consoled.

In the background, another piece of the Metal Man fell off with a crunch.

“It just only looks as terrible as it really is.” I presented.

Vince wrenched his hair and screamed. I took a drag on my cigarette. The smoke blew out in wispy contrails. The Metal Man shivered. Flecks of rust crackled off in leafy flakes. I thought it was just the wind. A breeze chilled the empty area. The get well card I made jack weighed down my jacket pocket.

“It’s getting late,” I stated, “Are you sure you don’t have school or anything?”

“It won’t matter if my parents won’t notice,” he shrugged.

“Not even the teachers?” I exclaimed.

Vince’s face set into a deep frown. Eyes glared into the more rocks he kept finding. I’ll take that as a no. Yet even his squeeze, Sierra, had parents who worried about her curfew. A kid driving eighteen hours away is bound to raise suspicion, get parents worried, and doesn’t matter the kid it’s a parent iota to do such things.

The Metal Man didn’t have much info about him. He had quivering down to an art form. He had help getting flipped up out of the dirt and on top of our cars. I squeaked a little. Vince guffawed until he remembered his suitcases are in my car and he swore now that my bug was taking a dirt bath. The live Metal Man who popped his head out of the hole he made however wiped his brow, unaware he had an audience.

Deep violet and black flashed against silver chrome trim. The Metal Man’s claws anchored onto either side of the hole as he pulled himself out. Twenty to thirty feet tall he rose to full height. The parallel optical bands glinted in the sunset on a chrome face. His broad shouldered build came to sharp points and blocky angles lacking the armor of our previous metal man. He joyously waved around a blue crystal in one hand.

“Commander Starscream,” he cheered, “I finally have the sample you ordered for Lord Megatron!”

Holding the cube high overhead, a tumbleweed bounced along behind him. He swerved his line of sight around but with no one eye level the mine was currently empty. Vince gaped like a fish. I sucked in a baited breath. My cigarette turned to ash in one inhale. Hypothesis proven correct the Metal Man was a living man only more like the Iron Giant™ type of robot instead of the feared robots found in Blade Runner or Asimov’s protocol.

“Megatron?” the robot asked, he kicked a nearby rock, “Aw man!”

His bum hit the dirt with a metallic crunch. I grabbed Vince by his jacket collar and proceeded to drag the boy offstage behind the nearest rocks. Iron Giant™ over there was too pre occupied sticking his cube in a sub-dimensional pocket and craning his head to the heavens as if he was looking at all this destruction for the first time in his life. The light emitted from his optical bands scanned the area quickly. He let loose an appreciative whistle.

“Wowzers, blew the whole mine huh? Some Autobot Battle” he guessed, “Sonuvva glitch, what a waste of good food.”

He shook his head in dismay as he struggled to his feet. A few clicks under his breath bounced off the walls. He cocked his head as if to hear something before taking a few steps forward.

“I swear, Energon is hard to process enough without all y’all’s fightin’ and sabotage. Darn Autobots are so good at shootin’ themselves in the foot. They might as well shoot themselves.”

Iron Giant™ paused before he stepped on Metal Man’s face. Regret laced his voice as he ran a finger down the Metal Man’s face. His eyes were darkened lost voids in the pit of his visage.

“Not that we aren’t any better,” Iron Giant™ paused. He took a step forward. Vince’s car crushed under Iron Giant’s foot.

“MY CAR!” yelled Vince.

Iron Giant™ squared his shoulders. His hand rotated into his forearm and out popped the gun. I tried to grab the kid but Vince shoved out of my grip. Dang kid stomped out into the open. I yelled for him to come back. Yet Vince got scanned along with the local area. Iron Giant™ didn’t look where he aimed his gun. The barrel’s muzzle followed Vince around with uncanny accuracy.

“Now’s who’s all up in Decepticon Territory,” he announced, “State ya name and bid-ness Squishy before I pump y’all fulla plasma cutter.”

I wanted to know where did Iron Giant get his accent from. Did he come from the Bronx or the Southern United States? He sounded like a walking cowboy poem.

“He’s with me!” I yelled. I walked out from behind my hiding place. My hands raised palms up to show I meant no harm. The universal sign of surrender. I needed to get Vince out of here not get him killed.

Iron Giant™ wobbled around whirring his gun. His aim was now anywhere but at a human’s head. He activated the optical bands again. Iron Giant’s head slowly swiveled around to take a good look around the room. He aimed the gun directly in my direction. I kept my hands raised. Vince shook like a leaf but after so many months of running for my life from the cops, the bounty hunters, the F.B.I and MECH my capacity for panick got used up. Facing my inevitable death felt exhausting.

“Second verse same as the first,” Iron Giant™ warned, “State ya name and Bid-ness Squishy.”

“I am Dr. Jaiden Filbert, a human engineer in wormhole tech and prosthetic technology,” I rattled off, effectively blowing my cover and making Vince cuss. He wasn’t the guy waving the gun around any, “Former newlywed from the Late Ghostwater Springs. You just buried our cars underneath that metal man over there.”

“A Metal what?” Iron Giant™ asked.

“The corpse you flipped on top of our cars sir when you came up from wherever you came from,” I hissed out trying to maintain my cool but only for so long, “Look it’s been an eighteen hour drive for both of us. I got a get well card to deliver to someone I accidently traumatized. He has school to get to.”

“Hey!” Vince snapped.

“No “Hey” me Vincent,” I growled before turning back to Iron Giant™, “And that poor corpse you just desecrated _needs_ proper closure, a burial preferably, and I’ve had it up to here with your bologna! Either shoot us now and get it over with or you’re going to have to tell your overlords you exposed yourself to the general public!”

“Fine by me, ya can’t talk if y’all is dead.” Iron Giant™ dismissed and lowered his gun once again. It’s piston’s charged up an electrical hum. Light started pulsating down the gun’s barrel.

Vince jumped in between us, “WAIT!”

Iron Giant’s™ gun dimmed. The barrel pulsated backwards. The pistons cooled to a standstill. Vince licked his lips with a gulp. He looked at me for some form of confirmation, reliability? Look I build stuff, I don’t talk them down. Still it was some vote of confidence he had an idea. I just gave him permission to speak because I don’t know what the heck I’m doing.

“Well,” Vince trailed off, shaking at the knees, “He’s a wanted man by the . . . Government.”

“The Government huh?” Iron Giant™ droned.

“Yeah that Government,” Vince agreed.

Iron Giant™ lowered his weapon. His gun flicked back into a clawed hand.

“We had Glitch-heads on the high council automating all us hard working mechs out of a job,” Iron Giant™ hummed, he started walking back to the Metal Man. We fell in step with him. “It’s a right mess to get screwed over by the Primes. Autobots are cocky, comes with the territory. The Decepticons though, we are or was just a bunch of the poor schmucks Zeta Prime screwed. Megatron brought our complaints all the way to the top. I have the meetin’ recorded somewhere but dunno where. We fell into war after that.”

Iron Giant™ heaved a sigh, “Wish I knew why but oh well, thanks for bein’ upfront and not y’know killing indescriminately. Autobots do that a lot.”

“Uh sure,” Vince added.

“Yeah thanks,” I agreed, “And by Autobots you’re talking about the people you’re rebelling . . . against?”

Iron Giant™ grunted an affirmative. He picked up the Metal Man and pointed to the differences between the Metal Man’s insignias and his own.

“The Autobots had us pressed beneath their heels for too many years. Maybe not with violence but certainly with a lotta rules and regulations they didn’t let apply to them too. Nothing but double standards for everyone’s benefit,” Iron Giant™ talked.

Vince muttered, “I hate double standards.”

“No bot does,” Iron Giant™ agreed, “Well after bit this D-12 guy got to volunteering to be a gladiator because it brought awareness to our plight. The Autobots were too cocky to notice, well the Tower Mechs any who, not the archivists.”

“Who was the Archivists?” I brought up.

“What about the gladiator? What happened to him?” chirruped Vince.

“They was friends!” Iron Giant™ exclaimed, “I don’t know the whole story. My buddy got shot before he could tell me the whole story.”

“But the gladiator sounds so awesome!” Vince yelled.

“Hey hold your horses before jumping to conclusions Vincent,” I exclaimed, “We barely met the guy recently. A war still happened.”

“The Great War,” verbally supplied Iron Giant.

“Yes,” I included, “And just because one story sounds better than the other doesn’t mean everything is peachy keen.”

“And how would you know?” Vince asked.

Iron Giant™ cut in before I could explain it all further.

“Jaiden’s right about that part at least,” Iron Giant™ exclaimed, head turned to the metal man, he surveyed the blown up mine with a clicking tut-tut, “We _used_ to be non-violent, all us ‘bots and ‘cons.” More tutting. “Now we’re just anythin’ but peaceable, alla us.”

Iron Giant™ stalked over to the Metal Man. His claws gently clasped around one ram, He had Metal Man’s upper half in a pack-strap carry. His lower legs, the middle was slashed in two diagonally, dragged behind him in the opposite hand. Metal Man’s hand had Vince’s car dangling from a fingertip before it finally fell to its final death.

Vince strained his whimpering. The car now totaled front to back. It’s once beautiful chassis impacted itself to kiss the the dirt. Woof, now that’s not cosmetic damage.  Iron Giant™ ignored the wreckage. He helped the Metal Man across the floor.

“So were you going to bury this ‘bot?” Iron Giant™ trailed off.

Vince bit his sleeve in ache to his totaled car. I couldn’t help but wince in sympathy along with him. Vince was too choked up to answer. I spoke up for the two of us.

“Out of respect,” I explained, “We actually don’t have any affiliation with either side but bad things happen to everybody.”

“Yeah Cliffjumper deserved better than what he got,” Iron Giant™ hummed, engine purring, “So where’d you want to bury this ‘bot?”

[[[

Several miles away, a certain Decepticon was not a happy camper. The spaceship gravitated above the skies in a lazy autopilot. The ship’s low-light interiors. During the Fugitive Engineer’s antic fueled dilemma, a Decepticon was having a battle with a pair of tweezers and getting someone else to hold still.

“When I get my servos on that annoying little fragger,” Knockout growled, “I’ll rearrange his paintjob.”

Knockout considered himself a pretty handsome ‘Con in his red polished paint with the lovely white detailing. He was actually quite furious in how he’d been found stuck in a saguaro patch. The prickly pears puckered through his grill. He shifted mode and bit back a curse. Everything internalized from the inside out to looking like a porcupine from the outside in.

“Hold still Knockout,” soothed Breakdown.

Compared to the needle-nose pliers, Breakdown might as well have been handling toothpicks for chopsticks. The primarily blue and silver bot hulked over his smaller partner. His red face dead set around stern orange optics. He lurched forward. The pliers pecked at a new needle making the doctor yelp.

“He just  pulls up to the road and what does he say?” Knockout yelled, “What does he say!”

Breakdown found a new needle in Knockdown’s neck cables and gave a sharp tug.

“Ow!” Knockout jeered.

“He said, ‘Have a nice drive?’” Breakdown guessed, much to Knockout’s red eyed glower. “You had your Com-Link on KO and I heard the whole thing.”

Another prickly piece of cactus got pulled. Knockout bared the pain with a grunt of indifference.  The awkward silence stretched between them.

“Did you know he’s a fugitive?” Breakdown mused.

Knockout checked his reflection in the mirror. He sneered at the new scratches. Somehow that nasty Man was going to pay.

“That meat bag?” Knockout piped up, “Oh yes, the picture of wanted alright. Always skipping first place to fix someone’s car.”

“Knockout,” Breakdown groaned.

“He uses turn signals, freaking turn signals,” Knockout continued complaining, “In a street race! Why the slag should he do that? He should be pushing people off the road.”

“Knockout,” Breakdown sighed.

Knockout pushed everything off his desk into the trash. The major hissy fit hit an all-time crescendo.  Bottles of liquids, different waxes, and paraphernalia sailed from Knockout’s grasp like rocks erupting from a volcano. Breakdown sat back, might as well get comfortable.

“Have a nice drive. Have a nice DRIVE! Have a nice drive my pede!” Knockout griped, “When I get my servos on that slagger, his skidplate is as good as scrap!”

Paraphernalia rained from the heavens. Breakdown’s flat expression got a glob of red paint down his head. Silver detailing brush tapped across his shoulder. Rags flittered down in undulating waves. Breakdown lurched out and caught knockout’s wrist before his favorite buffer hit his least favorite wall. Knockout paused slowly turning to take in the damage. His lower lip quivered.

Breakdown didn’t react too badly to the hissy fit for what it was. He picked up a rag and quietly wiped everything down. He took out a spare detailing kit that was prepared ahead of time beside dozens of others considering how often accidents happened on board.

“Knockout he’s a human,” Breakdown stated, “And he used to work against MECH.”

Breakdown tapped his eyepatch as consolation. The red sportscar arched a single brow. His humiliation in the saguaro momentarily on the backburner. Breakdown accessed the radio on his dash without just a mental nudge. He helped Knockout reach some of the cactus needles he couldn’t reach, emphasis on some. The radio blared on for a small second.

_Reports on missing persons Vincent Carmicheal and the murderer Doctor Jaiden Filbert remain at large since two days ago Vincent went missing. The police have questioned eye witnesses and local authorities for further evidence. The mother of one of Filbert’s latest mad science experiments only had this to say._

_“Doctor Filbert if you’re out there! So help me I will turn you into the police! You had no right to do that to my boy,” yelled Nurse Darby, “No right at all!”_

Knockout chuckled, “One of the Autobot’s pals got traumatized? Maybe there is good news on this forsaken Mudball.”

“Shhh,” Breakdown shushed.

_Other eye witness reports seem to countereffect physical evidence as many more nurses and doctors at the local E.R. seem to attest._

_“I remember that grungy man. He took the street racers he raced against to the hospital whenever they got hurt. I’d offered him a place to stay but he refused,” remarked the doctor, “When we left the hospital we saw him taking tarps off of his and the racers cars. Most of the time he got a left hook to the solar plexus for his troubles. Others were quite thankful. I don’t know if  this man is all bad or all good.”_

_“That hobo changed my car tire and called a tow truck for me.”_

_“Damn weirdo with his dumb looking car, don’t buy into it. His car runs pretty hot.”_

_“Who cares if he kidnapped my son I never notice the waste of air around,” remarked Vince’s progenitor, “Now gimme back my beer.”_

Breakdown turned off the radio. Knockout drummed his digits along the table in afterthought. He didn’t notice his friend pluck the last cactus needle. Knockout did pull out a new can of paint and scratch resist.

“I’d been checking up on humans we have had repeat encounters with ever since MECH took my optic,” Breakdown exclaimed, “The altruistic fugitive has a wormhole device installed into himself and several prosthetic organs he made. He’s a walking techno-organic.”

Knockout screwed up his face in disgust. “Now that’s just a walking abomination.” His faceplates split into a grin, “For my dissection table.”

Breakdown huffed, “And what? Have the human authorities all over the nemesis hunting after the Grunge Doc? This puts him in Agent Fowler’s territory for all we know he has a unique bio-signature or something.”

Breakdown pushed a couple of squares on the touchscreen. A new window lit up onscreen. A roadmap from Nebraska to Nevada colored in several shades of green. The little beeping icon was just chibi jpeg of Dr. J. Filbert’s face. The bigger icon following it was a Decepticon. The zoom-in image showed camera feed of a speeding VW Bug followed by a giant robot, a Decepticon miner at that. Knockout frowned.

“He’s going back?” Knockout wondered aloud and dreaded the arrival, “Why?”

[[[

The VW Bug lurched and sputtered the last couple of miles outside of town. Our Decepticon friend the whole drive back to Jasper, Nevada had let us get to know him better and then some with constant chatter.  He walked a few miles behind us picking up a new tune on the radio and bobbing his head to the beat. His com-link kept getting picked up by Vince’s cell phone and we could hear him humming along to something or dropping hints on Energon Prospecting.

“What a waste of Energon to blow up that mother-lode back in Nebraska let me tells all y’all,” he began, and Vince with a roll of his eyes smashed his face on the steering wheel as here the fellow went again, “Starscream ordered me ta get our best sample of energon back in the back of the mines. The tunnels go for miles. Energon is such a good fuel too. It crystalizes for transport. It liquefies for consumption. It can harden around itself to make its insides nice and gooey. It can be derived from any energy source but output of that energy is to approach critically dangerous levels to be put into an Energon cube. That’s why miners are so important mined Energon is the safest Energon aside from it exploding if you lit it up. It’s kinda a mix between gasoline, and clean energy.”

“Alright! We get it! You’re a glorious miner,” Vince bit out.

The phone call went silent for a bit.

“I’m not that good,” He exclaimed.

“So what makes the energon explode?” I asked.

“Radioactive laser-frackin’,” supplied the ‘con, “One day Zeta Prime decided to enlist some minors into prospecting for gold by using automated frackin’ equipment. Ever seen a semi-truck crash into a gas station. It’s the equivalent of a drill powered by nitro-glycerin. We’d used dynamite for flatland minin’. Fwooo-wheee! Doesn’t that just burn ypur skid plates.”

“Okay, what is your name again?” Vince growled, “Political Parties aren’t quite names.”

“Oh nah we Cybertronians aren’t the Government,” the guy chuckled, “Not anymore, more like equal opportunity terrorists. By the way, call me 01001101 01110101 01110011 01110100 01100101 01110010 00100000 01000011 01110101 01110100 01110100 01100101 01110010.”

“Geez-us,” Vince blurted.

“What does that mean in English?” I asked.

“Muster Cutter.” Announced the Decepticon Miner proudly. His voice curled into a grin. Ironically cutting to the muster was not something he did.

“How do both sides feel about Earth,” I interjected. Honestly the war between the Decepticons and Autobots seemed to be pretty large scale for such a small Earth. It was bound to hit the cities.

Every few miles we drove Muster Cutter sped up to come with us. A sudden flash of the surrounding area for a few hundreds of miles lit up his optical bands and away he went stride by lazy stride.

“It’s ah right,” Muster Cutter acknowledged, “It’s not home. Autobots are trying to protect what little we have left. Decepticons aren’t too keen on sharing.”

“And humans?” Vince cut in.

“Hmmm I guess there’s somebody out there for everybody to not notice,” Muster Cutter hummed, “Or not like in general. For the autoboots it’s us Vehicon Miners though they go to town when we fight back, ouch. For us ‘Cons it’s humans.”

His breath hitched, “No offense.”

“None taken.” I blurted out.

“I don’t blame you,” Vince shrugged, “Some of us humans are absolute losers.”

Vince was careful not to name any names but dang kid has a jealousy streak the size of Texas. That human he referred to could’ve been anyone even himself. As bad as Muster Cutter’s associates sounded like, I genuinely liked this guy. It’s not every day I had someone who didn’t want to rip me open for spare parts. The political factions among the Cybertronians could complicate things. Meeting a new culture was supposed to be a period of open mindedness and learning not life risking.

“Don’t sell the world short kid,” I muttered, looking at a couple photos paperclipped to my sun visor in the car. One of them was my wedding photo with my late wife, she didn’t deserve the way she died. The other one had been myself and an assistant of mine surrounded by all of our financial backers and friends. One army man sported a scar across his broken nose to match the scar down one side of his cheek. I used that photo for a dart board with his face as the bull’s eye if the surrounding holes are any evidence, “The world has a way of proving you wrong.”

At least I want to be proven wrong, just this once, if it means kids don’t lose their hope in this universe or the next.

[[[[

We pulled up to the hospital, the ER specifically, and Vince refused to be driven further home. He got out of the car. He didn’t take out his suitcases from the backseat. He crossed his arms. His shoulders hunched from the weight of the world crashing in around him. The giant robot who came back from the dead. The Decepticon Miner who was forty-eight hours ago not afraid to kill us yet helped us bury our own enemy. The way Muster Cutter talked about political unrest like it was an impractical personal matter. If no one saw what Muster Cutter looked like, they’d honestly wouldn’t have been spooked.

“Are ya sure it’s not too dark to get an escort for ya home,” suggested Muster Cutter,” I know we aren’t the most indiscriminate but I can put a good word for ya among the Vehicons. Us little guys gotta look out for each other.”

“I don’t need a ride home,” Vince dismissed, he gaped at where Muster Cutter was standing, “Where’d you go!”

The sign for Jasper Hospital took a dented blow. Dust blew around Muster Cutter invisible ankles leaving wind shears without a wall to see break them.

“Like I said,” the voice in front of Vince spoke, Muster Cutter’s that is, “I don’t have conventional ways of hiding.”

We didn’t even know what he meant by conventional. Unless, Jack Darby’s talking Motorbike is any clue. I thought it was an AI. Jack treated it as the first person he came to for help. Darn it, if Muster Cutter’s war stories were any evidence, Arcee would rearrange my prosthetic parts if Mrs. Darby didn’t get through with me first.

A tired woman in her late thirties stopped short pf Vince.  Green wrinkled scrubs beneath a yellow cardigan. Her black hair in a low-slung ponytail. Gray eyes rimmed red from smeared tear tracks. She stopped everything at the sight of Vince suddenly straightening at attention. Aside from his hair getting combed he looked a right mess.

“Hey Nurse Darby,” Vince greeted as well behaved as a school boy.

Nurse Darby dropped everything to give Vince the once over. Little worried murmurs, a motherly concern prodding fingers around his jaw, along his ribs. Vince scowled bloody murder and curled away from the intrusive worry.  I got out of the car and proceeded to take out Vince’s bags from the back. At our lowest point people can get peeled back to their deepest roots. The worried mother clamored with her instincts as the stern nurse who knew every street racer by their full name.

“Vincent Carmichael what happened to you? Your father is probably worried sick,” Nurse Darby insisted, “Did he hurt you? Tell me he let you go.”

“Look he drove me back,” relented Vince with a gulp, “My Dad won’t notice I’m there.”

He hated Jack’s guts but respected his Mom like a son would a stern parent. That would be good for me to know.

“That megalomaniac?” Nurse Darby gasped.

“Look I just,” Vince recounted, hands balled into fists, “I went after him. I want to turn him into the cops but my car got wrecked and the Grunge Doc drove me home! The thing with your son? I-it. It was an accident! He didn’t deserve it and I . . . I don’t want to go home right now!”

Nurse Darby glanced over my shoulder as if to notice me for the first time. She marched my way. Arms ramrod to her torso. Suddenly I felt too impure to make a good impression with the mama bear. Five o’clock shadow, cigarette stink clung to my clothes, and I just inhaled a puff of smoke. I swallowed afraid to open my mouth for fear I’d breathe cigarette smoke into her face.

  Suddenly, she was very close. She was nose to nose. A twinge of fear sputtered up in my numbed heart.  I leaned against my boot heels. My lungs burned and suddenly my stink left me feeling less than professional with the other adult.

“Can *hack* *hack* *ka-cough*,” I chocked, “Can I help you?”

“I’m calling William,” she snarled.

“Who’s that?” piped up Muster Cutter.

The wind only blew in response.


	4. Interrogations and Living Situations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> June Darby makes an executive decision. The Autobots don't know the duo knows some secrets.

Nurse Darby tried to ignore the pleading in the teen’s usually venomous green eyes. She asked him tons of questions on the drive to his house. Most of them related to the man who phased a TV Knob through her son’s esophagus. He couldn’t quite compare the tired man he’d punched to the Megalomaniacal Dr. Frankenstein Nurse Darby kept explaining on the radio.

“Are you okay?” Ms. Darby asked.

Vince blinked back disbelief.

“No, I’m not,” Vince stated, “I don’t want to go home.”

Ms. Darby readjusted her grip on the steering wheel. The pity in her gray eyes turned Vince’s plead into a snarl, “Hey! Don’t give me that look! Alright? I don’t need pity. I never got kidnapped.”

“That’s what most Stockholm syndrome victims say about their kidnappers,” Ms. Darby supplied.

Vince groaned into the heels of his clenched fists. This is what he hated about adults the most. They always talked down to him. Vince didn’t say anything for the rest of the trip. Nurse Darby kept trying to open her mouth but the first question to come to mind just wouldn’t flitter off the tongue. Vince leaned, on one hand, staring out the window. He wanted to talk to someone, anyone really, but he just never ran into the right person.

“So,” Ms. Darby cleared her throat, “I see you talking with Sierra at school.”

Vince shrugged. Sierra wasn’t “into” into boys. A sweet motorcycle, or a nice set of wheels, and her daddy never allowed her to get a car. Something about a metal deathtrap on wheels or something.

“How are your classes,” Ms. Darby tried again, “Any ones you like?”

“They suck.” Vince bit out.

His stomach lurched from the slamming of the brakes.

“Excuse me!” she warned.

Vince’s gaze darted from Ms. Darby’s face to the open road shiftily. His retort caught in his throat. Bad move, man, bad move. Some parents actually care about what their kids have to say. Good news though, at least they stopped driving to his house.

“I mean I don’t like school, too many bureaucrats,” Vince declared, “all the fun stuff gets taken out because it doesn’t make money.”

Ms. Darby relaxed a little thinking she found some form of small talk.

“Your father must be really proud,” Ms. Darby said.

Then came the laughing. Then the shoulders shaking. Then the laughing while the shoulders shook and Vince scrubbed his face with one fist, surprised to find his cheeks wet. His eyes stung. Ms. Darby couldn’t quite rub his back and quit driving at the same time. Vince was still in the passenger seat wiping his eyes on the back of his sleeve.

“As if,” Vince scoffed, “He doesn’t even notice I street race.”

That revelation almost strained Ms. Darby’s foot through the brakes. Vince gulped at the rising tension emanating from the Mama Nurse. She was the one who patched up the street racers, almost all of them, except for Dr. Filbert. Now Vince knows why the secret cyborg avoids hospitals. Vince didn’t really think this was the woman Jack Darby called Mom.

“The uh, the TV Knob through the esophagus thing,” Vince relented, “It was an accident. He can’t quite control the thing that did that thing. I mean Dr. Jaiden Filbert can’t.”

There went the muttering of that Stockholm syndrome thing. Vince grit his teeth and grinned. He showed too many teeth.

“Look we don’t really _like_ each other,” Vince snapped, “I didn’t get kidnapped. I came after him.”

“But you were positively filthy when we found you,” Ms. Darby stated.

“I know!” Vince finally yelled the drive seemed to go on forever, “I know. I . . . I was at a funeral. They needed help burying the body.”

He bit back the words, Dr. Filbert was there too. Worry making him sound crazy. Vince’s phone rang and he answered, “Yeah Whaddaya want?”

“Hey, Vincent?” Muster Cutter’s voice cut through the tension, “Could ya put me on speakerphone again? Y’know like before?”

He set the phone on the dash. What followed the car was a light pole that bent at one angle. The steady stomp-stomp of clomping footfalls. Nurse Darby seemed suddenly alert to the noise. The car slowed to a halt. Something danced on the tongue but she couldn’t quite say it. Muster Cutter could jabber enough for three people.

“Hi there Vincent’s friend or friends how y’all doing tonight? Fine? Great? I hope ya doin’ good?” Muster Cutter chattered, “I wanted ta thank Vincent for his help with the funeral. We were kinda short servo-ed, HANDED! Kinda short-handed and uh his car crashed on the way to the funeral. Don’t make me explain it. Vincent gets all teary-eyed just lookin’ at it. Well y’all was wonderin’ where Vincent was and I was thinkin’ Dude? Don’t you call? He said nothin’ and I’m like Gee aren’t ya sure?”

Muster Cutter chewed the slat a while longer.

“Y’see me and Cliff were on separate sides of the war we were in. He doesn't have family here and I was there when he got eviscerated and that ain’t right. He deserved better. So we paid for a proper grave. It ain’t traditional, traditional, but it’s cool. Said sappy stuff. They had a long ride back. You ain’t gonna rip Doc Grunge a new one are ya? He was um, trying to avoid upsetting Jack . . . then again who wouldn’t get upset. It’s like a sports car with its tailpipe missing.”

. . . And he talked . . .

“Boy, have any of you heard about Frackin’? It’s freakin’ frack-tastic.”

. . . And talked . . .

“Water frackin’ is dangerous due to the cross contamination caused by dirty water mixin’ with the clean water in a fresh drinkin’ supply. Oil frackin’ is the same thing only more dangerous. Did you know mining was dangerous?”

. . . And talked . . .

“But mining is so important for clean energy and environmental safety! We can’t rely on one energy we’d end up like Indians and the Buffalo or the Irish and their famine taters. It’s like missing out on Breakfast. Come to think of it, proper energy consumption is heavily monitored to find new ways of clean energy but no more automation. Automation is a dumb idea when manpower and good time management.”

. . . And finally, Ms. Darby had enough.

“Okay! Mr. Cutter, you’ve made your point,” Ms. Darby butted in, “Oh look we’re here.”

Ms. Darby pulled into the driveway of a small yard resembling a crabgrass meadow of tack burs. If the worn down tire tracks weren’t there Vince would’ve had to show the Nurse where to park.  Vince slung out all of his bags and trudged out to a moderately-sized, rustic house on its last legs.  The surrounding farmland looked like it developed a heaping helping of weeds. Ms. Darby tiptoed past Devil’s Claws, tumbleweeds.  A rickety front porch wiggled with every knock Vince banged upon the door. Vince rolled his eyes since no answer was coming, he slammed open the door and stomped right in.

“I’m home Dad,” Vince called out.

A burp escaped the Lazy Boy. A wad of flesh clothed in underpants slowly emerged off the couch. Ms. Darby clutched her purse to her chest in surprise.

“Took you long enough,” slurred the thing, Mr. Carmichael Ms. Darby assumed, “Where’s my beer!”

“We didn’t get beer Dad,” Vince grumped, “And no takeout, I just drove 8 hrs out from Nebraska, totaled my baby, and left a funeral can you show a little decency.”

Mr. Carmichael blinked watery green eyes. He leered up and down Nurse Darby’s very feminine form. Greasy lips curled up into a perverted smirk. He licked his hand. He plastered his combover onto his bald spot and smiled.

“Hi,” he throated out. Mr. Carmichael plopped onto the floor passed out in his own mess.

Ms. Darby suddenly stifled the urge to hike up her skirts and run. Vince stomped by, rolled the man on his side so he wouldn’t drown and stormed off. He checked every nook and cranny of the kitchen only to come up with a smashed pickle jar and a handful of coins.

“Damn it not again!” he growled.

He threw the jar into the trash and looked for another money stash. This time the dirty sock had a wad of goodies. Slimmer than average but his Dad was always abusing every single thing of his including money to fix the house.

“I need to start keeping cash in my . . .” Vince choked up, “Never mind. C’mon in Nurse Darby. Don’t mind the mess.”

Ms. Darby smiled politely, pleading, “I don’t want to intrude.”

“No you’ll get bit by a snake and your son will kick my ass,” Vince griped, “I’m serious about the snakes, they came in when the cats died.”

Ms. Darby tiptoed around the passed out Mr. Carmichael. The interior of the house used to be cheery before time wore it away to the colors of a yellowing tabloid. Matching wooden, metal, and plastic furniture buried in boxes of dirty magazines. Ms. Darby tightened her cardigan against the chill in the house. The walls, textured and red, were peeling paint. Vince kicked vodka bottles out of the way across the tiled floor. Ms. Darby screamed bloody murder. Mice came pouring out of the rat’s nest of family heirlooms, not yet pawned.

“Alright let’s go, there’s a hotel downtown that cuts me a deal,” Vince shrugged.

“A hotel,” Ms. Darby deadpanned, Helicopter Mama mode engaged.

“Well yeah,” Vince stated, “I live there when Dad uses up all my money. The heat’s gonna be cut off for another week.”

“But what about your-“

“Prostitute sugar mama,” Vince butted in as if that were the answer to everything.

Nurse Darby schooled her features into a generous smile.  All this house needed to have was a quarantine sign then they’d be all set. Vince’s father never acknowledged their departure. He just grabbed what he needed and left. Vince took a shovel by the door and dispatched one rattler. The severed head tossed into the tack burs. “The head still bites after all that,” warned Vince.

Nurse Darby had been chased by some nasty things in her time. She didn’t think she’d ever get the revolting house out of her nightmares. It stunk. Vince had been clearly neglected. Helicopter Mama Mode reactivates.

“Then you can come stay at my house,” Nurse Darby announced.

Vince whirled around to stare at the nurse. Stay with Jack Darby? His pride was throwing a tantrum. He crossed his arms and shook his head no repeatedly. Nurse Darby squared her shoulders. Hands on her hips. She wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“You’ll save more money if you stay with a friend,” Nurse Darby suggested.

Suddenly, Vince was holding back tears above a quivering Grimace. Usually, he lived in his car. He made good money street racing. The crew at the racetrack was his much-needed social attention. Now thanks to a stupid zombie-bot he was stuck.

“Fine,” Vince huffed going back inside to get his bags and call his Dad’s girlfriend.

* * *

 

 Dr. Filbert didn’t tell the agent yet about the Metal Man they buried back in Nebraska. The Darbies had mixed feelings of inviting the school bully into the house. Vince was polite. Jack gaped like a fish. Arcee’s rearview mirrors pricked forward hard like a doggie’s ears. He swallowed a snicker. Okay yeah, maybe that gesture was kind of cute for a fifteen-foot tall warrior woman turned Cherry Moped.

“Mom are you serious?” Jack deplored, “Him? Here?”

“He can’t stay in that rat’s nest,” Nurse Darby counter-argued, “It’s covered in Mouse droppings.”

“But I live here,” Jack stammered, “And our special guest.”

He patted Arcee’s handlebars to prove his point. The motorcycle was positively stewing. An impressive feat to do without a face. On the other hand staying in the same house with the same giant robot he’d called a slowpoke he was iffy about letting it spill he already knew about the Autobots from an extra chatty Decepticon.

“He’ll play nice,” Nurse Darby exclaimed, “I should know. I’ve patched him up enough times to know he can watch his manners?”

The last three words directed at Vince had him choke on his spit.

“Yes Nurse Darby,” he rang out.

“Please call me June,” June Darby soothed.

Dinner was a hastened and vegan thoroughfare. Vince forked through his casserole wondering what weird proteins were used in lieu of beef for beef stroganoff. If all else fails, he drowned the tofu in Worcestershire Sauce then he wouldn’t taste the less beefy bits. It stuck to the ribs at least. Jack eyed Vince suspiciously. Vince glared back. June’s cleared throat reminded the boys to play nice.

There were a few upsides to Jack’s house. It smelled good and Vince drowned all his sorrows in the first hot shower he ever had in hours. The hot water steaming his troubles away and for just that moment he was back in the hotel using the complimentary shampoo. Everything smelled of lemons and he wasn’t cleaning up trash just to put on his bathrobe.

Jack went to talk with Arcee in the garage while the house was filled with a stranger giddily sniffing around the house.

“Are you as weirded out by this as I am?” Jack asked his partner, “That the school bully is in my house or that Vinny is. . .”

“. . . Calling you damn lucky that your place is clean,” Arcee finished, “What kind of scrap-heap was Vince living in?”

June Darby waited until the boys were busy before she went on her shift. The phone ringing in her back pocket. She was surprised it was the police station. She was extra suspicious of the gruff hello on the other end of the line. Handcuffs jingled around the doctor’s wrist.

* * *

 

“How is he?” I asked it was the first thing to come to mind. After the plea to not go home, the extra-large suitcases, and Vince’s attitude towards adults. I hypothesized the whole thing stemmed from more than a lack of faith in humanity.

“Which he,” Ms. Darby said snippy, “Jack or Vince.”

“Both,” I shrugged, “After everything, both boys went through I feel responsible for being the cause for all of it. If the government agencies and MECH found out I was in contact with them their home life would’ve been uprooted in ways no one should go through. I couldn’t risk that.”

Ms. Darby blinked in surprise, “Come again? Oh, I’ve already met M.E.C.H. and if you think I am going to allow you near my son again.”

“Duly noted,” I exclaimed, “Thanks for taking in Vince. He’s rough around the edges but a resourceful kid. Mean right hook.”

Ms. Darby quipped, “Oh I see and you don’t see this as creepy? I hardly know you and none of it is good.”

“Just keep the kid safe. I can’t speak for his father. Your son is already in good servos. I’m speaking on behalf of the redhead who races me on a semi-weekly basis.” I demanded fist slammed into the metal table. Handcuffs cut into my wrist. I’m tired of being blamed but my blood boiled all the same.

The call ended. The dark complected man across the table from me had his finger pressed down on the other end of the line. Strong cheekbones, built like a linebacker before the middle-aged spread. He still retained his soldier looks. My hands kept shaking for a cigarette or something to fiddle with.

“What did you mean in good servos?” asked William. Agent Fowler as called by the other robots Muster Cutter mentioned.

I sat back amazed he caught on to the dropped hint. Decisions, decisions, call it slip of the tongue? I think not. I’m in so much trouble even accidents have blamed entirely my fault. It doesn’t help I focus on them. Still, I leaned forward and kept my arms in plain view as if to show I meant no harm. The interrogation location was undisclosed but no two-way mirror? The card table set up in a room for giants.

Gauging my mental files for Muster Cutter’s height this was a Cybertronian proportional interrogation facility. The windows were tinted to disallow peeking.  My car could be getting probed as we spoke. I never thought that would happen given my three years living on the lam.

“Like I said,” I piped up, “In good hands. Vince’s home life was raising some red flags for me two days ago.  The people I encounter either get vilified or made into victims by whoever comes after me. No kid deserves that.”

“And the item you stuck in Jack’s esophagus?” Agent Fowler brought up.

“An . . .” I gulped, “An accident. I didn’t mean to traumatize the kid alright! I told him to go to someone he trusts, because . . . because I don’t have the medical expertise to perform that kind of surgery.”

Head in my hands, I let the guilt come crashing down around me. My wife, Ghostwater Springs, the things I’d run from, the people I hurt, and the list of sins kept growing. Strange shadows beyond the tinted glass hinted at giants. The key clue was Jack, Jack’s with the Autobots. My heart constricted.

“I make the tech that makes it possible for the surgery to be done.” I laughed, tears in my eyes at the strange requests I’d had three years ago, the weapon I’d forged. “I know absolutely nothing textbook about First Aid.” I gripped my shirt around the prosthetic parts. “My wife, she taught Kindergarten. She and I were the ones who thought this invention would save lives. It killed her.”

“I made the murder weapon,” I swallowed, “I set the wheels in motion but I did not kill her. I did not kill her, you have my word I did not kill everything she stood for. I did not kill her.”

My prosthetic heart spluttered and hitched. My compressor lungs hissed behind my ribs. Each body part convulsed in one motion. My world contracted and ebbed along with it. Blasted interrogation rooms. I fiddled with my wedding band. Took a deep breath I tried to focus on one positive or something I could make positive . . . Cliffjumper’s closure.

“You were at a funeral before you came here?” Agent Fowler asked. “How did you know each other.”

I hid my surprise in my hands. Funeral? Muster Cutter can actually access phones I remembered. Of course! And talk their ear off too. I’m surprised he actually helped us out when we’ve only known each other forty-eight hours. If Muster Cutter thinks highly enough of these guys who regularly shoot him on a daily basis then maybe I could be more forthcoming with _these_ people.

“Mr. Cutter and the compatriot we buried were on opposite sides of the war they’ve been in. Mr. Cutter is loyal to his side but not to the point that he believes the enemy deserved the transgressions wrought upon him. The poor guy had been stranded here instead of in his own country. We made do with what we had. Vince was actually up there to punch me in the face,” I chuckled through my tears, the chair screeched when I scooted back, I lifted my shirt to show the bruise, “He got a pretty good blow to my solar plexus. I don’t know what happened to the poor fellow. Mr. Cutter due to alignments beyond his control has been ordered not to drop any clues.”

I leaned forward in the chair. My hands clasped around my wedding ring. No this felt wrong. It was too soon to pick a side to trust. I’d been on the run for three years. I wasn’t happy, I was scared. The giant robots behind the tinted glass stirred, momentarily. I buried my head in my clasped arms and wept.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vince, as a character in the TFP continuity, has the vaguest backstory. In Doctor Jaiden Filbert's original incarnation the Grunge Doc had been kidnapped almost immediately by the Decepticons and while I'll miss the unique dynamic Dr. Filbert had with the Decepticons. Other characters needed more exploration, including the antagonist's themselves and the murder of Cliff Jumper makes it easier to explore those dynamics. We already know who killed who. Next chapter will have the Decepticons. It's long overdue.


	5. Eye Spy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone in this chapter decides to be real and touch into their sensitive side. June inspires Vince to get out of his comfort zone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes are at the bottom of the chapter.

 

Vince dove onto the couch, relishing the scent of soap and cleanliness. His house always had a hint of mildew or BO when the heater was working. Burying his face into the pillow he inhaled and moaned in delight. All in front of Jack Darby. Jack Darby who stood gaping at the door. Vince Carmichael stopped in his sniffing spree. Vince realized he sniffed around the house as if it smelled like a long-lost girlfriend. This was a complete stranger’s home, and he shouldn’t be this overjoyed by the state of clean.

He curled in on himself. Jack back pedaled away. The door closed behind him. The clock ticked in the background. Jack burst through the door. He grabbed his coat then slid the door shut behind him.

“You alright Jack?” asked a young woman, Vince now knew was the motorbike and the young woman who greeted Jack at K.O. burgers.

“Yeah who’s up for a drive?” supplied Jack, “Vinny's must have finally snapped.”

The motorcycle started up leaving an empty garage and awkward tension in the home. Vince screamed into his pillow for another reason. Weakness, he decided is a stupid thing to show. June showed up with her purse but Jack was nowhere around. Vince buried his tomato blush behind his pillow. He threw the pillow back on the couch when June walked in.

 “Jack you forgot your package,” June said. Her face wilted in earnest. 

“Jack’s out for a drive,” Vince exclaimed, “to get some air.”

“He forgot to deliver the medical supplies I told him to,” June fumbled for a word, “His secret book club." 

The excuse sounded terrible but Vince told her okay anyway. She was off to work, listed everything that was available in the house, and hugged him goodbye anyway. Vince cradled one arm around her shoulder before she left.

Vince exclaimed, “Thanks again for the stay Nurse Darby.”

June dismissed, “It’s nothing and please call me June.”

Vince stammered, “Yes Ma’am. Is Jack always this shy?”

June bit her lip.

“Jack,” she trailed off, “My husband up and left when Jack was sixteen. It’s been the two of us ever since.”

Vince’s stomach wobbled as more pieces of the puzzle fit into place. Jack was the drive-thru worker Vince always dined and dashed on. He threw burgers at him since he started showing up in cooler cars than his. He felt a tinge of rage at Jack for taking everything for granted. Even though Jack had the loyal friends, a better parent, and a steady, if demeaning, job. It gave Vince the sudden urge to punch something, Jack’s face if his mom lets him which of course she won’t. What jerk allows their kid to get assaulted?

Vince’s Scumbag Dad popped into memory alongside the runaway husband of June’s. Okay so there wasn’t much to beat up Jack on. At the end of the day, he was a part of a secret war with bigger things to worry about than proms and pimples. His head told him to trust his heart, his heart argued with his head, and his temper refused to reboot anymore.

“I’m sorry,” Vince whispered, “Your ex-husband sounds like a piece of work.”

June didn’t deny the fact nor come to her absentee man’s defense. She set the package on the counter. Her expression carefully shielded from Vince.

“Our marriage read more like a saga than an actual marriage,” June added, “How did you get to know.” 

“Dr. Filbert?” Vince interrupted, “He brought this piece of crud car to the track and bet us he wouldn’t beat him. We were wrong. Okay best two out of three but don’t tell him that! It was best four out of five then five out of ten and before long I was angry and I wanted to see how he did it. He asked me what I wanted my car to do and helped us with our vehicles instead.” 

“He doesn’t sound that forthcoming,” June commented almost scoffed. 

“We’re competitors. not philanthropists,” Vince snorted. “What if you have something that makes you better than someone else? Do you share it with them so that they can be better than you too?” 

June gulped. She didn’t know what to say to that. The dangerous glint in Vince’s eye flashed like steel across his face and burned holes through June’s gaze. For a moment, the neglected boy became one of the racers who kept coming into the emergency room. She didn’t know if she’d actually liked that.

“Vince Carmichael,” June scolded, “Do you even hear what you’re sounding like? Who you’re trying to become?”

“I,” Vince huffed, “I never thought that far.”

He flung open a suitcase. An envelope fell out of the top. He’d recognized it as the card Dr. Filbert was making. It held stiff with an intricate wire covering. The message was wrote with a messy flourish on the inside. The front dotted with little blue crystals.

“ Maybe you should,” June scolded, “Not everyone who helps you is out there with ulterior motives in mind. Who knows, anyone can be good from the inside out if they’re given a chance from the outside in. That’s what makes sharing worth the risk.”

“Taking risks is reckless,” Vince snapped, “I don’t gamble.”

“Then I can trust you to choose your risks carefully ,” June admitted.

She ruffled his hair. Vince balked at the touch. Shifty eyes watched June walk back to her car and drive off to work. Vince whirled around to see if the coast was clear. He patted himself down only to find his wallet still in his back pocket, along with Dr. Filbert’s get well card to Jack. He squared his jaw watching June’s car disappear down the block. 

His eyes roved the get well card in one hand. Fingers squeezed the card around the edges. Vince put it in one pocket and got out his cell phone from the other pocket.

“Hey Muster Cutter, can you tell me where Jack and Arcee are heading?” Vince asked.

“Sure thing kid you gonna tell him what you know yet?” piped up Muster Cutter.

“No,” Vince exclaimed, “If Jack wants to talk about it. He’ll talk. Right now I have something he needs given.”

  Jack Darby toed down the gas urging the motorbike to speed along. Arcee’s gas pedal edged up under his foot causing the boy to lurch. His stitches buffered under his shirt by gauze and nylon wrapping. Each bump caused the stitches behind his sternum to scrape to eerie awareness of what used to be there.

“Jack we’re not speeding,” Arcee scolded, “The doctor told you to take it easy.”

“I know,” Jack sighed.

They slowed towards a turnoff off the main highway. The dirt road was barely a worn path to an uphill plateau. Arcee unfolded into robot mode. Dust clung to Jack’s converse tennis shoes as he took the walk up. Arcee kept a hand on Jack’s back on the steeper area at first. 

“C’mon Arcee I’m fine,” Jack reacted.

“Stitches say otherwise,” Arcee hummed, “Remember what Ratchet-“

“I know, I know,” Jack reassured. he inhaled trying not to imagine the staples on his bones, the bandage itched, “He said to take it easy. It’s hard to when I’m pretending in my own home.”

This far out of town the stars blanketed the sky. Arcee and Jack might as well be shadow puppets on Nevada’s nightscape. Jasper Illinois lined the ground with neon low lights. Arcee took the time to stretch. Little cricks popping out from her stiff joints.

“You ever had times when you tried to be someone else?” Jack inquired, “Not the robot in disguise thing, just socially like you’re you and they are . . . them. I mean, I’m supposed to be happy my Mom helped a kid from my school. I can’t stand Vince but I’m supposed to be happy and I’m not. Vince is one of . . . them. I’m . . . me and not to be rude. He’s kind of a jerk.”

“Not to be Unicron’s Advocate,” Arcee pointed out, “But . . . them . . . me . . . It makes no sense. What is he to you?”

“He’s this annoying jerk at my school,” Jack muttered, “He’s-urgh! What a brute!”

Arcee sat cross-legged by Jack at the Plateau’s edge. One hand cupping her head, she leaned in to listen. Vince over the years proved a smite troublemaker in Jack’s personal life. Throwing burgers at him out of jealousy. Getting up on his grill after getting beaten. Vince tended to try to have rematches until the planet looked level. The bully took his frustrations out on the workers at K.O. burgers. Jack happened to always be the one on that right shift at the wrong time. The fact Vince’s house was a breeding place for rodents didn’t soften the kid’s resolve. Vince caused enough trouble to tire out Jack’s care for the bully.

“Now he’s IN my house,” Jack conceded. “And I’m supposed to pretend I’m just a kid and you’re just a motorcycle and we all saw how that worked with my mom. Lying stinks.”

 Arcee chuckled under her breath. Jack growled, “What.”

“Nothing,” Arcee chuckled, “Okay actually, Vince reminds me of Cliffjumper.”

Jack slapped a palm to his face.

“The old (1)Cliffjumper,” Arcee remanded. “He used to get into a lot of fights, relished them actually. When it wasn’t Decepticons his favorite person to pick on was a High Tower mech named Mirage. It was night and day, Mirage a noble turned spy who never experienced nature. Cliffjumper was a mini-bot turned frontliner who had trigger happy tendencies. They fought over everything.”

Jack adjusted his position near Arcee. Cliffjumper a bully? He’d always heard of the Autobots as a family. Arcee was always quick to defend Cliffjumper even had a bullet for his killer.

“How? Why?” Jack stammered out.

“It was over something stupid,” Arcee answered, “Mirage had been a spy who worked with ‘Cons. His badge flips over to show a Decepticon symbol so that they didn’t know he was working with the Autobots. Cliffjumper couldn’t decide where Mirage’s loyalties lied. Mirage liked the Autobots but hated the Earth. Cliffjumper thought with his fists before he thought with his guns. Mirage tended to retreat inside of himself instead of asking for help.”

“That makes no sense,” Jack interjected.

Arcee shrugged.

“The Autobots had all kinds of strange partnerships over the years. If it weren’t for the war, some castes might not have even met,” Arcee listed. “Mirage fell under mind control from an insecticon. They ordered him to shoot his comrades against his will."

“What happened?” Jack asked.

“Their latest fight broke the computer chip in Mirage's processor," Arcee tutted. "Yet the fight almost cost us two valuable allies. According to Ratchet, Cliffjumper punching Mirage as hard as he did had saved Mirage’s life.”

“It didn’t stop the fighting did it?” Jack guessed.

Arcee’s optics glanced star ward.

“No, it took them years before they even thought of themselves as equals," Arcee reminisced. "By the time, I met Cliffjumper he mellowed out and I was the trigger happy one in our relationship. If it weren’t for people like Tailgate, Cliffjumper and you I would have become like Vince.”

Jack shook his head of the idea. “No way, you, you’re nice.”

“(2)You’ve seen me at my worst Jack,” Arcee stated, “There are some scars that will never heal. I can’t let it define what I do with my life after the pain hits.”

A twig snapped. The story cut short. 

 The climb up the private plateau had Vince scraping his knees and cursing up a storm. Pistons wined and gears shifted by the time Vince dragged himself up the mountain. He scrambled to his hands and knees taking a breath for a few short seconds. A Motorbike had propped up on the top. Jack across the seat as his stitches weren’t bothering him.

 _Isn’t that folding yourself into something smaller than you are a bit uncomfortable?_ Vince wondered, not out loud, but the more he thought about it the more confused he got. _Jack’s riding a girl every time he rides that back. What if Arcee turns into a car? Does that mean he sits on her face or her butt? My head hurts._

While Vince was contemplating the confusion of Vehicular robots. Jack forced his muscles to smile.

“Hello Vinny,” exclaimed Jack.

“Darby,” gruffed out Vince, “Your Mom told me you forgot this for your thing you go to.”

He shoved the medical supplies out at the boy. Jack, self-conscious, took the medical supplies Vince thrust out at him like it was a bomb. The bag fit easily on the back of the motorbike. The challenge to remain civil held in the air with a stubborn staleness.

“So . . .” Jack trailed off, “Why are you here?”

“Your mom didn’t make those supplies to keep getting forgotten,” Vince snapped, his eyes didn’t meet Jack’s gaze. He thrust the second thing at him, “Here!”

Jack took the Get Well card, muttering, “Oh . . . Kay? Who made it?”

Vince was already leaving.

“Tell Dr. Filbert, thank you,” Vince demanded,. He shoved his hands in his pockets as he stomped off. “He’d be here but he’s currently not because you’re scared of him and in jail and . . . stuff. Whatever! I didn’t do this because your Mom told me to give people a chance from the outside in so that the inside shines out.”

“Are you being nice?” Jack gasped, “You’re being nice? That’s just . . .”

“Weird I know!” yelled Vince as he left, “Don’t remind me!”

 Muster Cutter waited patiently outside of Jasper, Nevada. When his scanners picked up Vince’s life signs moving away from that slag-pile humans had the gall to call a house. He pressed the comm link to his temple. The signal’s range widened until the list of Decepticons and Autobots located in his HUD slowed to a crawl. Three Autobots were out and about.

Bumblebee was a yellow youngling sports car featuring black racing stripes. His new voice box didn’t lead much to the conversation. Every time he talked, Muster Cutter’s HUD lit up with subtitles along the bottom. The translations were half accurate. Luckily, communication is only twenty percent verbal and eighty percent body language. Between the bad text and Bumblebee’s expressions. The message came through he’d bonded with a youngling who could understand him. That was the gist of it.

The video feed of an armored truck and a young female rocking out to heavy metal. She seemed to have an animated conversation with the steering wheel. Loud, little, and two tufts of hair. The young woman may not have come from the same country. This area Muster Cutter knew had a plethora of humans who traced their ancestry to many places. Much like becoming a Vehicon didn’t make you leave your old life behind you it just filled in certain gaps. The Monoformer checked the comm link scan again one final time.

Arcee chatted idly in the garage with Jack. Vince seemed to get free run of the house during Arcee's and Jack's retreating into the garage. However , Vince never even approached any other rooms without June’s say-so. Cleaning, laundry, and when he took his clean shirt fresh from the dryer he buried his face into it to take a huge whiff. Heat readings still marked the shirt as warm. For as messy as Vince’s house, he surrounded himself with the scent of clean.

Vince exclaimed, “Thanks again for the stay Nurse Darby.”

June dismissed, “It’s nothing and please call me June.”

Vince stammered, “Yes Ma’am. Is Jack always this shy?”

Muster Cutter inwardly winced. The boys avoided each other even though he’d already spilled the oil about the War for Cybertron. Jack, on the other servo, had kept the Autobots a secret since day one. Jack's social life took a one-eighty showing how much Jack gave up for his robotic friend.

The duo after a quiet chat had driven left the garage and sped off leaving Vince at the mercies of June.

Maybe that won’t be such a bad thing, Muster Cutter thought. Then he felt his Energon processor fall through his pedes, Oh scrap.

Dr. Filbert’s unique bio-signature went that way. He’s probably at the base so exchange one awkward meeting for another. Unless Dr. Filbert didn’t tell them he knew about everything either.

“Well I’ll be dipped ,” Muster Cutter hummed to himself. He checked back to the Comm links on the Decepticon list. His first ones to scroll through were Breakdown, Knockout, and Starscream. Starscream picked up on the other line, Muster Cutter stifled a groan.

“Who goes there!” Starscream snapped. His voice could cut tungsten with its screeching. Low-level growls and stocky design opted out for stilettos and sleek grey robot mode. He’d made most mining Vehicons look buff by comparison, “State your designation and order.” 

“Commander Starscream this is Prospector Drone C-12. I have the Energon sample ya ordered,” Muster Cutter droned.

Starscream seemed to preen at this statement. Muster Cutter hated the coding designations, they were so . . . informal. Anyone who went through the consignment program usually lost some sort of individuality. They also put up with this abusive sop. Starscream plotted behind people's backs. The paperwork for new Energon mines was awful enough without Starscream

“Patch meh through the Lord Megatron, sir,” Muster Cutter continued, earning a growl. “As my Commandin’ Officer Commander, Starscream ,I love the good example you set by makin’ sure you obey your commandin’ officer . Yah ordered me to bring Megatron our finest sample and Megatron ordered you to obey him. I like that about you. You ain’t going to disappoint the mech who rearranges Autobot grills for fun until you tick him off. Am I right?”

“Oh shut up and send Soundwave your coordinates,” Starscream grumbled, “Monoformist Motormouth.”

“Will do,” Muster Cutter cheered.

Out of all the Decepticons, he worked with Starscream was the one guy who tended to keep some stuff to himself. Knockout got too happy when it came to dismantling. Airachnid had a twisted hobby for squishy taxidermy. The less chance they had to screw things up the better. The Autobots didn’t need to have more reasons to be better than the Decepticons.

A green vortex swirled to life. Muster Cutter padded on through. The vibration setting his plating on end. He undid the cloaking device on the way inside. A wave to Breakdown earning a scowling nod from Knockout.

“Is that a touchup, it looks like a fresh coat of paint,” commented Muster Cutter, “You look quite striking today.”

He avoided Airachnid. The greeting he gave Starscream was quite formal but at a safe distance. The last one to keep on good terms with was Lord Megatron.

“Report C-12 what have you got to bring me,” delegated Megatron. His servos behind his back. Red gaze was grand and imposing.

 Muster Cutter reached into his sub-space pulling out an armful of Energon cubes in the process .

“I was late in gettin’ you ya samples. Yet because of a mine explosion we missed a vein I was in,” Muster Cutter informed the main mech. “So I took everythin’ that was intact enough and brought it here. What’s left of the Mother Lode ain’t worth scrap. Unless, you have a tank that can process ninety percent rock and twenty percent chromium nitrate it’s pure sugar and would burn up faster than it’d fuel .”

“Thank. You. C-12, I have had enough of your blathering,” Megatron dismissed, “Begone.”

“That ain’t the most interestin’ part,” Muster Cutter began.

 “You are dismissed ,” Megatron ordered.

 Muster Cutter bit his tongue. His hands clasped in front of him. He bowed out of the room and stalked down the ship’s halls. The windows open to the planet Earth beckoned Muster Cutter’s longing gaze. He wanted back down there but he loved the work he did helping others here.

“Slag, Soundwave!” Muster Cutter gasped

Megatron’s third in command found the Drone before Muster Cutter could get a good scan of the room. Wings folded into long limbs ending in spindly fingers. Quasi-digitigrade legs padded softly across the metal. A purple visor fully obstructed his face except for some radar readouts. Soundwave was practically a ghost of the Decepticons.

“You scared me,” Muster Cutter laughed but the amusement was not returned.

Soundwave played a variety of sou`nd clips. Muster Cutter winced. In his free time, he did admit he loved to talk. His chatter was so long Soundwave had to clip soundbites. The third in command did what he could to show the parts of the conversation that would irk Megatron the most. Muster Cutter’s phone call with Vince showed pieces he supposed he wasn’t supposed to talk about. Muster Cutter vented slowly . Try as he might he couldn’t deny he didn’t speak well of his fellow Cybertronians.

“I’m slagged either way,” Muster Cutter confessed, “Ya know the fugitive from the radio, on T.V.? Dr. Jaiden Filbert?”

Soundwave played the radio interview Knockout and Breakdown monitored. The hissy fit Knockout pulled over his paint played. Alarm bells rang off in the prospector Drone's head. Luckily, Muster Cutter didn’t have the face plates to betray his shock. The rest of him was still and calm.

“Yeah that’s the guy,” Muster Cutter answered. “Dr. Filbert harmed one of the Autobot’s humans by accident. The Autobots are holding him captive because the humans don’t know what to do with him.”

Soundwave’s screen emitted a cocked eyebrow emoji. Muster Cutter waved his arms frantically .

 “Look check the Microfiche man, he was the only human there after the death of Ghostwater Springs. These particular Autobots have a thing for taking in strays,” Muster Cutter laughed. “The darnedest thing is I tried to report this to Megatron but he told me I’m dismissed. He only wants to hear about the mines. As per his orders, I’ll tell him what he wants to know. I’ll keep an eye on them so that they stay the Autobots problem. If I die, take my vintage high-grade collection.”

Soundwave stepped forward. Muster Cutter scrabbled backward. The silent mech pointed a long finger back at the Earth.

“Keep an eye on them.” 

“The Autobots slag Vehicons like me Soundwave. Spies publically ain’t welcome among the ranks of any army,” Muster Cutter warned.

“. . . slagged either way.”

Muster Cutter finished with a “Yes sir.”

The mining drone stumbled through the Ground Bridge Soundwave summoned. It’s light particles swirled around his knees as he felt the ground rise up to meet him. All the fears he hid shuddered around his plating. His vents hitched. His breathing erratic. Soundwave never had an explanation. If he didn’t play it close to the hip he didn’t know what the Decepticons would do to his new friends. His cloaking device swam across his vision. One flash had the outward scan map the area. The other scanner picked up heat signatures as amorphous blobs. The blobs gained some shape. Dr. Filbert’s unique bio-signature appeared on Muster Cutter’s HUD. A flare of hope bounced around the drone's Spark Chamber.

(3)The Decepticons never allowed him to talk much but the humans were so polite in listening. Maybe he could talk to one of them again if he was really sneaky in doing so.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes:  
> (1)Old Cliffjumper: Just thinking too far into the G1 episode "Traitor" where Mirage tried to pull a double agent and got double crossed twice. Then throw in some backstory tidbits and it becomes a bonding moment between Arcee and Jack.  
> (2)Arcee's lost partners: A sore spot to be sure but I'd like to hope it was also a strength. Considering how much she risked herself for them.\  
> (3)I had to cut the chapter really short. Cliffjumper's murder been a hot topic throughout the series especially for Arcee and Starscream. However Vince, Muster Cutter, and Dr. Filbert are new to alien cross-culture anything so we have the scientist who won't take sides, the toughie who's totally not getting jealous, and Muster Cutter who, as a Decepticon at heart is kind of an outsider among outsiders trope. It'll be fun watching how they handle this.  
> Then all that will be left is figuring out how to whittle down suspects and balance the strained sub-plot. Next chapter I want to try something new but for Dr. Filbert he's still the only first person perspective.


	6. Sick and Hired

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Filbert gets hired because he's scary . . . and needs help. Ratchet gets annoyed. Agent Fowler unleashes a monster.

* * *

 

The sooner I knew everyone was asleep I’d activated the wormhole device to check on some prosthetic parts of mine.  The engine was still pumping blood at an even hum. The lung compressors were still pumping oxygen. The intestines didn’t need total replacing yet. The mechanical liver helped process toxins along with prosthetic kidneys. Otherwise, the foreign materials in my body would have poisoned me by now. I was using the tinted window to see my reflection. The low lights were dark enough that my faux organs glowed in the dark from my wrist computers lights.

I look at the organs. I lean back to look at me. I get this two A.M. revelation that sinks me to my core thinking, _Dear sweet mother of invention. What if someone is watching me from the other side?_

The wormhole slipped closed. I ran to push the chairs and card tables back where they belonged. I stopped to catch my breath. The engine spluttered in my chest. My mind swirled in its own dizziness. Ugh, it was too early to re-calibrate the wormhole device. I clenched my stomach. Everything else constricted in protest.

“Filbert, get up we have a long round of questioning and my superiors want,” began Agent Fowler.

My world constricted to that one focal point. I fell off the chair. Concrete knocked on my noggin. Everything was burning. Agent Fowler was yelling swearing by something related to Americana.

* * *

 

_The dust from my old workshop in the barn had me choking on its flying bunnies. I had a car taken apart. Its parts laid out on a table beside it. Another project hung on the wall opposite. Sweet scent of new rain followed the barn. My hands flew to my bare neck. It was shorter somehow. I took a glance at my rear-view mirror and found my driver’s license picture staring back at me. The long white lab coat over a T-shirt and jeans._

_A buxom beauty laughed like tingling chimes at the door of my workshop. Her curls tried to dislodge from her messy bun. Her poppy print dress had seen more dust than her student’s sticky hand prints. It was gorgeous fall weather and my workshop looked like it hadn’t seen a duster in months._

_“Morning handsome,” she greeted and sweet spiel did I miss that voice._

_“Helena you wound me,” I quipped, “What brings you here?”_

_She hugged me from behind. A peck on the cheek and a cup of coffee pushed into one hand. I mock-pouted at the lack of cigarette but I had my hands busy on one of my wife’s lesson’s plans. We work on projects together._

_“You forgot to take care of yourself,” Helena chided, “Again darling when was the last time you ate?”_

_“This morning,” I contested, "What time is it?"_

_“It's two A.M I mean remember when work is work and play is play,” she contested, “You try too hard when you don't have to and work too hard when you get absorbed. You forgot to eat first.”_

_Science lessons aren’t meant to be complicated. A few simple toy planes for roughly thirty children. The rubber band powered devices cobbled of cardboard and bobby pins. They were definitely going to be fun even if the kids never remembered the science knowledge I could at least introduce them to actual hands on learning. Something my wife and I found rewarding despite my discomfort around children._

_“Aw c’mon what’s fun is fun, just do it all hard!” I cheered._

_She pinched my cheek._

_“You can’t relax hard honey,” Helena scolded and sighed, “Then again your work ethic is what I love about you. Never change for anyone sweetie. You’re amazing as you are.”_

_I melted into Helena's kiss. Toy planes left forgotten. Fingers trailed to her spine. Nails traced each vertebrate. She was worth it. To see her happy made me happy._

_“Aw then why contradict yourself by telling me to take a break?” I whined._

_“Because it scares me to see you working until you pass out, don’t do that to yourself even if I love your hard work,” she scolded, our foreheads knocked into each other. Lungs left winded and breathless, "I love you more than what attracted me to you."_

_“Then let’s do some hard core relaxing. I bet we can sit through the Iron Giant™ and Pizza.” I challenged._

_“I’ll raise your bet and,” Helena’s eyes unfocused before she focused back on me once more, “Make that two movies, the Iron Giant™ and Howl’s Moving Castle™.”_

_“You’re on," I agreed_

* * *

 

My eyes snapped open. My arms reached for Helena's embrace.  Yet I lay supine on a metal slab. Chapped lips puckered to kiss thin air. The ceiling above me is now a hundred feet.  Brain kicks in and all I'm left is with the ghost hands of a dream. Darn it! . . . Five more minutes confound you cursed wakening.

“What the heck, Ratchet, what is Dr. Filbert doing here? I thought he was at the police station?” remarked a voice I haven’t heard in 48 hours. Jack and he’s distant, tens of feet below me.

“Due to less adequate accouterments at local prisons,” exclaimed a guttural voice, “His health condition complicates his expected imprisonment.”

“I heard he could walk through walls!” added a girl.

“With a wormhole maybe,” chimed in a young boy, “But you need some way to stabilize the middle of the wormhole or it’d collapse with him in it.”

. . . Wow . . . Smart kid . . . What was I doing?

“I wanna see!” cried out the girl. The kids were tens of feet below me, but the man they spoke to was right next to me.

“Ep. Ep. Ep. Miko, stay away from the Med Bay.” Ratchet warned.

“Sorry Ratchet I wanted to see what you did with old Grunge Doc,” exclaimed Miko.

“So far nothing but according to my scans Dr. Filbert’s radiation poisoning is Cybertronian in origin instead of Earthly.” Ratchet stated, the pause of questioning looks followed. "He has a rock caught in his gears."

". . . Oh . . ." The kids exclaimed in tandem.

I glanced to  the left. My pictures from the glove box, racing specs on my V.W. Bug, and sticky notes covered one bulletin board. The ceiling wasn’t to the room I was arrested in but an actual Missile silo. Plenty of ceiling space but if everyone living here was the average 23 foot tall automaton the walking space is the size of a New York apartment without wiggle room. My head pounded, I groaned trying to sit up.  My vision filled with a face full of nose, forehead, helm, and I screamed.

The Giant Robot screamed.

The floor caught me with a crash. I tried sucking in air. The lung compressors were wound up too tight. One gasp, two gasp, and I might as well have Listerine strips for lungs. I backpedaled from the shadow above me. Footsteps rang out on the steps two at a time. My lung compressors needed loosening. I tried to breathe. My lung compressors just wouldn’t heave.

“Uh hey, are you okay?” asked the kid.

I shook my head no. I tried to speak out but coughs erupted instead. I tried to breathe. I grasped my throat with both hands.

“Ratchet Dr. Filbert can’t breath,” yelled Raf.

The giant shape had me crawling under the table.

“It’s okay,” reassured the kid, “We aren’t going to hurt you.”

I laughed out a spluttering wheeze. My head was spinning. Every prosthetic part felt too tight. My lung compressors just constricted my ribs to my core.

“Come on out,” he soothed.

Like coaxing a rabbit out of a tunnel. It felt undignified. Then again, Muster Cutter was chatty, friendly, and he didn’t speak too ill of either side given his alignments. I kept reminding myself they’re just people. Giant Robo-people nonetheless, but I needed air and this was the closest I’d get to help. I’d crawled forward. The vortex spread out from under my hand making the floor fall out beneath us.

“Rafael!”

I smashed the kid to my chest. I rolled around. My back hit something hard. Zwoop! Next hard thing. Another wormhole. Next hard thing and ow, ow, ouch!

I bit my wrist computer. The wormholes finally  stop. When I get a good look at the kid. His brunette hair slicked back. His glasses askew. The kid’s probably twelve, I think. Sweater vest on a small frame. The metal surface rose up to meet me.

I try to mouth thank you. My lungs are still heaving. A series of trilling beeps join the staccato of voices. Raf gave the beeper two thumbs up. The hand that depositted us to the floor hovered slightly I  held up a finger trying to tell them I’m fine (I’m not). I frowned.

 _What would Helena do at a time like this?_ I wondered. My wife would scold me. What about kids. One of her kindergartners was deaf.

I started with signing on one hand. My head swam. Recalibrate took too many letters. I started again. The beeper’s optics zoomed and widened like a camera lens. Eyes trailed to my held up hand.

V-W-B-U-G

“Beep-beh-deep, rrrrrr-whirrrr, bee-boop, bee-boop,” the beeper whirred in excitement.

“It’s sign language Bee,” explained Raf. “It’s what some humans use when they can’t talk.”

I kicked myself. Okay language barriers, Fan-freaking-tastic. I just hate a challenge when I need to breathe. My car is on a table near Ratchet’s hip. I pointed to my car. I started up the line of sign language again.

V-W-B-U-G

“You want your car?” Ratchet guessed.

I clapped my hands and nodded yes! Yes! I needed my car!

“You can’t have your car,” Ratchet concluded.

I glared at the mech. My lungs were shut down. I could go blind before he figured out what I wanted.

The impulsive girl, however, scrambled through the car taking out an emergency medical kit and a toolbox. She lifted them high overhead. I clapped my hands and  waved for her to bring them. Ratchet cursed thinking he got everything out.

“There’s an extra space for spare tires,” Miko exclaimed, “Totally not used for what it’s supposed to be used for.”

Ratchet deposited both bags on the table. I dragged them to the floor. Too dizzy to stand and opened the toolbox. I fiddled with the wrist computer exposing prosthetic organs, the wormhole generator lodged in my chest, and more screaming from Ratchet.

Ratchet:“By the pits of Unicron!”

Raf: “Ewww!”

Bulkhead: “I think, urp, I’m gonna toss my Energon processor.”

Miko: “Yuck! Gross! Can we poke it?”

Jack: “Don’t Miko and let’s just say we did.”

There’s the problem. I screwed a part in my wormhole device too tight. Just a little unscrewing later. The generator motored to life causing my chest to have that familiar ache. My lung compressors heaved and with it my body started breathing.  The resupplied oxygen cleared my dizziness. The wormhole I made had closed under my command and the prosthetic organs were running smoothly. Satisfied, I put away my tools and staggered to my feet.

Ratchet’s face filled my vision and he looked like _he_ saw a ghost.

“By the pits of Unicron,” he whispered and stumbled catatonic to the nearest chair, “No ethics like that should be applied to science.”

I pulled my shirt lower than I thought. Memories of my wife danced in my head. Self-conscious I might have exposed myself to a bunch of Autobots. I just stayed put. I’d walked out of holding cells. I skipped town on many an occasion. I ran from MECH with old fashioned tools and went off the grid to avoid Silas.

“Well,” I croaked, “At the time I installed my invention into myself, I thought anything was better than to let MECH weaponize valuable medical equipment.”

* * *

 

Sometimes selling a pitch had a lot in common with teaching a class. Usually three years ago, my wife and I practiced on each other when it came to presentations. Now Agent Fowler, along with all of team Prime, had to sit through my complicated lecture as I reworded it again and again to be as understandable as possible.

Jack and Arcee decided to leave but Optimus bade Arcee to stay leaving Jack curled the farthest away from the couch. One hand covering the scar beneath his shirt.  Miko, asked me questions halfway through one sentence.

“Did you get all those cool parts at once? Does that make you a cyborg or a bionic man? Can I call you Grunge Doc? Where’d you get the cool super powers? Is that what destroyed your town? How come you’re not with the police?” Miko inquired like rapid fire.

“I’ll answer those in order,” I confessed, “I installed the wormhole device into my body first so that they’d have to kill me in order to get it. The rest of the cool parts are a result of multiple organ failure because my body needed modifications to not die. So, this does make me a cyborg though I’d call it prosthetically inclined, ahem. My wormhole is where I got the cool super power though some might not see the downsides.  Equal opportunity terrorists destroyed my hometown but I still feel responsible for making the murder weapon. I’m not with the cops because I can walk through walls but I need resources to keep the device re-calibrated or I’ll start phasing through random things by accident.”

I motioned to Jack adding, “Such as the TV knob through Jack’s . . . esophagus . . .”

I pointed to the platform Raf and I fell through, “And the floor. I tightened the wormhole device too tight and my cyborg lungs . . . eh . . . collapsed on me.”

“Bee-zwhirrrrr beep deh-beep?” inquired the beeper, Bumblebee. He started making hand signs and the thought struck me. Sign language! The Cybertronians had their own form of sign language! This was so cool!

“Bee is wondering where you learned sign language,” interpreted Raf.

“My wife Helena taught Kindergarten,” I mused, “Late wife actually. Some of her kids were deaf. I helped her with classes. You know it’s that little way spouses rub off on each other.”

Then, much to Jack’s dismay while I pretended to play stupid, Agent Fowler did his liaison thing debriefing me about Giant Robots. It wasn’t what I thought. Autobots good guy. Decepticons bad guy. Yet the vitriol biting at the bit of Agent Fowler’s speech scared me into thinking this man’s seen some crud. I thought I saw some crud. I felt small compared to Agent Fowler’s depiction of the cons. One of them being an Aston Martin, a reinforced SUV truck, a spider that turns into an Apache Helicopter, and an F-16 jet plane with delusions of grandeur. I didn’t have to fake my shaking. I peeved off a freaking Decepticon without knowing it. If I wasn’t careful, Vince would be a target.

Still, he’s in the same town as Jack Darby. The only missile silo for miles. The town could end up like Ghostwater Springs.

“Holy cripes,” I gulped, it didn’t help one of the kids I hurt is friends and family with _two_ Mama Bears. The bigger one can kick my can and outrace me, “Holy freaking mother of necessity.”

. . .Ode to joy . . .

* * *

 

I still felt responsible for what happened to Jack and my hunch for Vince’s neglect was a hunch I didn’t want to be proven right. My mind went to terrible places if I didn’t focus on what was in front of me. The Autobots were passing by the impromptu holding cell again. I counted five different sizes. The shortest one was the Arcee motorbike Jack had been talking to. A third person bouncing up and down, her pigtails were like little tufts poking out at forty-five-degree angles and her braid bounced after her like a little cattail.

I relaxed a bit hearing the interaction outside.

“Is that him? That’s the guy who’s on the radio right?” piped up a voice.

“Miko,” scolded Bulkhead, affectionately.

“He blew up Ghostwater Springs!” Miko declared, “Is he part super weapon! I bet he’s a super weapon like Godzilla or a Cyborg. Is he a cyborg. Is that why he’s staying with us.”

Miko gasped for breath, “Maybe he’s too destructive to be around humans.”

“Miko you weren’t supposed to follow us in here,” lectured Bulkhead.

“Well duh, of course, I didn’t follow you in, I stayed the night,” Miko announced, “I wanted to meet the cyborg.”

Bulkhead groaned. His hand ran down his face in that affectionate exasperation I knew parents got very good at when raising the mischief makers. I closed my eyes behind clasped arms and pretended as hard as I could that I was not in an overgrown bunker. My happy place picking up my wife from school and seeing how happy she was to be with her children and for a while, the fantasy had worked. The youngest kid, Raf Muster Cutter called him, was having a one-sided conversation with a beeping device but the beeps and whirrs sounded like the syllables of complete sentences. Raf had a good grasp of what the device’s user was asking though so no need to question it. Then there was Jack and Arcee quickly leaving after Agent Fowler had received a bagged lunch. 

The bag got dropped in front of me and my fantasy popped like a bubble. My hometown and my wife were dead. The love of my life was evaporated into a black hole and the logo for K.O. Burgers had my mind welling up in dark places again. I switched back to glancing up at Fowler. His expression stony, unchanging, and another round two of questioning.

“We found the card you made Jack,” Agent Fowler began.

“Did you now?” I crooned but self consciously I noticed there was only one bag in front of me and not one in front of him, “Uh are you sure you want me to . . . eat in front of you . . . or maybe that’s your lunch.”

“Jack says,” Agent Fowler tugged on his tie as he muscled up the right words to say, “Thank you . . . by the way. That’s your sandwich.”

I was a little caught off guard. Jack is petrified of me. I swallowed down my bite of burger. Juices dribbled down my jaw. Agent Fowler as per usual sat across from me. His visage set in steely determination. I dabbed a napkin to my chin and made sure to get comfortable. The interrogation is usually a long one and I needed to buy some time.

“He is very welcome,” I responded,  “Wait a minute how did he know . . . ah-ha Vince . . . Hnnn-ah Agent Fowler, thank you for putting up with me. I have to wonder though, am I inconveniencing the people you liaison for or is there something else you need to see me on. You usually are more vocal than I am while I don’t do a lot of talking.”

He threw open a manila folder. Inside was a job application and probation paperwork. A wanted murderer put on probation? Technically I didn’t murder my wife or her town but without the evidence. I couldn’t prove my innocence. The clause to confess I killed people. I scrunched it up and threw it away. The rest of it I’m flabbergasted between Agent Fowler’s paperwork and my lunch which was given to me from the kid I just traumatized. This was getting awkward, overwhelming, and confusing.

“With this paperwork,” Agent Fowler brought out a second confession clause, “You agree to being an accessory to murder. I will admit after how you saved Raf today and the evidence you presented to Team Prime we could use a witness like you to testify against MECH.”

“I’m not going into witness protection,” I stated, tapping the wormhole device, “I’m a little too distinct to stay hidden for long anymore.”

Agent Fowler nodded approval, “Which is why  we want you.”

My brain went into shutdown. I just harmed one of their kids forty-eight hours ago.

All I could utter was, “You want me to what?”

“Work for Unit E, as an intern.” Agent Fowler announced.

“Your government will end up hating whoever hired you,” I spelled out.

“Then Uncle Sam will just have to start hating Uncle Sam,” Agent Fowler smack talked, “Because THAT’S who I work for!”

I stared at the paperwork on the table thinking he’s nuts. A disgusting man going to work for a government unit I never even heard of. On one side I am fascinated by the Cybertronians themselves. Their culture, their history, and even their architecture all revolve around math, science and art history three of my favorite subjects besides engineering. On the other hand I peeved off a bunch of Giant Robots. I’m a roach compared to the adorable children. June Darby is going to flip her lid and keep me from seeing Vince. Vince is an annoying brat sometimes but I worry about him and thank goodness June took him in. I’m still terrible I got this hell hole rolling.

“You think I really deserve a second chance,” I quizzed Agent Fowler, “I don’t deserve this, neither does Jack deserve to have his fears walking about in a lab coat at one of the two places he feels safe.”

“Then what do you want?” challenged Agent Fowler, “Because from where I’m standing Grunge Doc. We’ve come from a long line that we don’t always get what we deserve but sometimes we make do with what we need. Right now what we need an inside look at MECH. Their whereabouts, their hideouts, even where they stop for donuts.”

“But the internship,” I stated, “What does it really imply.”

“You help out around the base,” Agent Fowler stated, “Office stuff. Main duty is to help cover up the existence of Cybertronians from the locals.”

“You say keep them a secret and yet your Uncle Sam has Team Prime stationed in Small Town U.S.A. Isn’t this counterproductive in keeping it a secret?” I asked.

“Well this is Jasper Nevada,” Agent Fowler shrugged, “Nothing happens here.”

“Yet when my mug showed up the news blew up across the state,” I chided, “Counterproductive, Boss, when something _does_ happen, people get more curious here than they do in Crown City and get nosier because it’s juicy. That’s very counterproductive.”

“Like I said before Grunge Doc, we don’t always get what we deserve but we work with what we need,” Agent Fowler stated, “Think on that.”

The Liaison left me alone with my thoughts and the echoing empty room. It had been nearly three years since I even had an honest to God job. I wiped tears from my eyes. The ankle monitor slung like a weight around my leg already showing I’ll never get free from the hell I put myself in. Yet it would be the first time in a long time since I let myself be tied down by choice. I almost died today and if I kept running I’d be dead somewhere else. I could suffocate after accidentally phasing through to the Earth’s crust. My prosthetic parts could have had a malfunction and I suffocate alone. Those cigarettes could kill me and my only mourners would be the vultures to pick my bones clean.

Then came the pros and the cons. I work for the Autobots, I won’t know who my boss really is because the buck stops at Agent Fowler and whoever he introduced me to. I’m a little too old an intern without looking suspicious. My reputation precedes me. As much as I wanted to get out of my old lifestyle I was recruited here because of it. The Cybertronians themselves have even newer forms of bias that I won’t know yet. Yet let’s face facts, there was a chance to exchange ideas and learn from a new culture.  These Cybertronians fascinate me and my hand was already scribbling down the paperwork.

* * *

 

I had a visitor and a job interview in the same coming week. I had packed up all of my clothes in two suitcases and got challenged by Ratchet to a few strange requests. His eyebrow rose three feet above one optic.

“Let me get this straight,” Ratchet questioned, “You want to do your laundry in one state, get your groceries in another state than ground bridge back here?”

“I take great pains not being seen in one place for long periods of time,” I remarked, “And I don’t want to intrude on your hospitality.”

I gross out the Autobots. Don’t tell them that I already know. I was trying, for Jack’s sake, to remain scarce. Ratchet chuckled. His expression went back to neutral.

“Absolutely not,” Ratchet refused, at point-blank.

I winced back gobsmacked. I expected a rebuttal but not one so blunt. The ankle monitor hung off one leg had a wider radius than one normally should. The street racers left each other alone when they went about their daily lives but everyone else? I couldn’t walk five blocks without getting stopped and reprimanded for my behavior even if none of it was even the truth. I did my worst while on the run.

“And how come is that?” I wondered, in all honest confusion.

“You are on probation,” Ratchet listed, “And until your.” Ratchet convulsed into a shudder. “health condition improves Dr. Filbert you are not leaving my sight.”

“Um okay,” I trailed off, “Do you need any.”

“No,” Ratchet refused bluntly again. “Keep yourself busy, play a video game or something.”

I sighed, so much for being useful. Still curiosity killed the cat, satisfaction brought it back. I kept pestering Ratchet with questions. It’s been ages since I had any small talk involved in work.

“So,” I started, Ratchet let out a groan. I stopped, “Yeesh touchy. I was wondering. How did the war between the Autobots and Decepticons really get started?”

“I am busy,” Ratchet stated, “And I don’t wish to be disturbed.”

“Okay, okay, chill,” I soothed.

I fiddled with my wrist PC. Three vortexes swirled to life. One in front of Ratchet. He balked. One near the desk. Another down the stairs. I walked through the wormhole in front and took the vortex by the desk.

“Are you _trying_ to try everyone’s patience,” Ratchet vented.

“Nah nah just looking for the bathroom,” I confessed, and on a note added, “Why is it the Decepticons have such a deep seated hatred of the Autobots and vice versa? Nothing personal but your science and engineering seem quite entrenched with the theology and folklore aside from history. The pits of Kaon have been known to be the Gladiatorial pits yet Megatronus was a miner, a poet, a politician. Orion Pax.”

“I said begone!” Ratchet growled.

His stomp clanged through the empty missile silo.

“I’ll be going,” I exclaimed, “Look since we’re working together. I hope we could start off on the right foot someday. Shoot, it’s been three years since I’ve even just talked for the sake of talking I’ll just.”

When the twenty four foot giant glared me into submission from thirty feet away then maybe it _was_  a prime time to walk away. I backed to the door. I left. A hunch suggested Ratchet might still be grossed out at seeing robotic parts in an organic man. It’s nothing new but for some reason I felt like an abomination underfoot of my colleagues. Contextual evidence but, a hunch this conversation wasn’t over.

Optimus Prime, Bumblebee, Arcee and Bulkhead pull their weight by doing maintenance work around the base. When the kids come by it’s like a reprieve. Their moods brighten up a little. No bars inside the missile Silo. Hard to get signal on top of the silo. Without my cigarettes my hands shook for some nicotine or something to fiddle with. Yet since nicotine was scarce, fiddling it is then!

I had an ankle monitor, nope! Nope! That’s illegal. I don’t want fired and put in prison. I rifled through my car and cheered. Ratchet grumbled but oh well. Cell phones . . . lots and lots of cell phones.

I tended to keep odds and ends, junk really, when it came to scratching my creative itches I made stuff. Some of it useless and stupid. This day I thought I could create a signal booster that could catch frequencies outside the base. Yet before I dove right in I found the saran wrapped suit that was gifted me for my internship. Well nuts.

“Work hard, play hard,” I hummed to myself.

So between showers, and shaving, I had a disassembly of gears and computer chips strung across the bathroom sink. I took one part off of an I-phone. This Google Pixel’s camera was good, nope bad fit. Here was a hold the phone.

I activated the wormhole device. I checked to make sure all of the organs were working smoothly. Re-calibration complete. I snapped the lid back on the prototype. It was a rush job but the solar battery inside meant I didn’t need to plug it in to charge it up. I dumped everything back in the bag I brought it in. My hair combed out it shined a little. I couldn’t help running my fingers through it, clean hair and it felt amazing. The green had started fading from the roots to black again. I pulled the hair back in low ponytail with leftover wire.

I remembered back to low levels of radiation. Hmmm, better ask a doctor Agent Fowler knows trusts or . . . Ratchet . . . Someone friendly? . . . Or Ratchet. Decisions, decisions, and oh boy did I miss having idle decisions to make even if it was with the doctor I couldn’t trust or the doctor I didn’t know. Ratchet counted as both for the time being.

The foot I almost ran into was Bumblebee’s . . . without his translator . . . oh crud.

 _Relax Workaholic,_ I could almost hear my wife chidding me, _People are people no matter what._

“Good morning,” I greeted.

“Boop Bee-beep,” greeted Bumblebee, and my mind locked onto those three syllables. Bumblebee is speaking english. He knows english but we can’t achieve small talk due to beepinese gap. What about a language besides beepinese.

“Say I was wondering, I need to brush up on my sign language. Would Raf and you like to help me?” I asked.

There was a shrill whine assailing my ears and Bumblebee was bouncing on his feet. Yikes the ground shook when he jumped. Thinking back to my wife’s kindergarten class they had that one scream laugh that was like an outright joy yet sounded like a scream. Bumblebee clapped his hands sending wind rushing from the blast. He held up a fist and nodded it. That was the sign I used yesterday for “yes”.

“Wow, yeah,” I agreed, I made a sign for S and nodded it back, “Yes. That is good.”

I took longer to sign the words then Bumblebee. Bumblebee mimicked back.

_Good._

“Yes,” I agreed, “That is good”

His question got lost amidst the beeps. I wish Raf was here to translate. Damn, the beeper was smart.

“For what time is good for you,” I spelled out, man my sign language was rusty, “Ask Ratchet.”

I didn’t know any other Cybertronian’s name in sign language. Bumblebee plopped onto his hands and knees. The floor quaked and man when a ‘Bot gets close they get invested. His wide eyes retracted then widened and suddenly I got the hint he was copying me. Me!

“For what time is good for you,” I repeated, “Ask Ratchet. Tell Ratchet . . . hi . . . for me.”

He sat back into a kneeling position. The one, no two, words he locked onto. He gestured for me to repeat the phrase again. His beeps corresponded to certain syllables to certain words. I couldn’t translate what he said. He had exaggerated body language to express what he meant.

_Ratchet._

I used one hand to make the socket wrench part around my extended pointer finger. Other hand mimicked the the socket wrench being turned.

Bumblebee did the hand wave for hi. The socket wrench sign that also doubled for the term Ratchet.

_Hi Ratchet._

In the background, Bulkhead stepped on something with a crunch and fell backwards, knocking half the equipment down with him. In the foreground Bumblebee mimicked Ratchet’s puffed up plating. Ratchet swore something awful. Be glad I don’t understand it. When Ratchet raised his fist so did Bumblebee.

“Bulkhead,” they repeated at the same time, “I needed that!”

Bumblebee repeated the word for Socket Wrench and pointed to Ratchet.

_Ratchet right?_

I laughed from the bottom of my prosthetic heart. The scene was cute. It was odd, but cute.

“Yes that’s the words for telling Ratchet hi,” I said and signed.

“Dr. Filbert!” yelled the boss, Agent Fowler.

“I got to go,” I signed back, “Good bye. Tell Ratchet hi for me.”

Bumblebee signed back.

_Good bye. I go tell Ratchet hi._

“Good job Bumblebee,” I exclaimed, “You are smart.”

His door wings fluttered in some motion akin to embarrassment. He hid his face in his hands pretending to blush. What? It’s true. I was amazed these Cybertronians learn so fast at such a conversational pace.

“I will see you later,” I exclaimed, “Bumblebee.”

I left unknowingly creating a monster in the process. Next came the job interview or meeting General Bryce after my first ride in a helicopter. I drove the pilot crazy. Like a kid in a candy store asking what all those buttons do.

“Shut up and sit down Grunge Doc,” barked Agent Fowler.

“Okay,” I reminded, “Hey what does this button do? Oh Crud! Sweet Mother of Invention. Dastardly law of Reactions! AHHHH!”

The switch I flipped turned the helicopter upside down. Agent Fowler yanked on the controls. My stomach hadn’t finished doing its flip before I got righted back up with the rest of the Chopper. Agent Fowler glared me into submission.

“Oh crud! Holy crud! What the crud!” I wheezed. Lung Compressors pushed excess steam out of the rib vents.

“What part of shut up and sit down,” Agent Fowler growled, “Did I just tell you.”

I sunk down, down, as far as my seat belt would let me. Agent Fowler returned to his piloting. I twiddled my thumbs. My fidgety demeanor begging for a cigarette. Damn it never start smoking. It’s like cheese balls. You can’t quite stop after one puff.

“All of it,” I squeaked out.

 _I need a cigarette_ , demanded my cynicality.

* * *

 

I chewed gum to stave off the creative itch or the nicotine craving. It was only Trident Gum. My hands set themselves to making paper cranes. In the waiting room outside of the office, a coffee table was starting to gather a multi-tabloid army when Agent Fowler was trying to give a pep-talk behind closed doors. The army was slowly expanding over the coffee table when Agent Fowler opened the door.

“We need an insider working on the, Dr. Filbert!” Agent Fowler gasped.

“I tend to keep my hands busy,” I exclaimed, “By being constructive. . . or smoking . . . Boss. I apologise for my transgressions. Is there anything I can do to help you sirs.”

That’s where the job interview began. General Bryce dimmed the lights. He closed the shutters and what he had to say long story short didn’t feel like an answer but not quite a reprimand.

“Dr. Filbert I have received your file of your repeated offenses over the past three years. Illegal street racing, bot fighting, weapons manufacturing.”

“Weapons disassembly,” I exclaimed, “Sir. I blew up that factory.”

“Repeated resisting arrest,” General Bryce listed.

“They had the wrong guy,” I exclaimed, "I'm the wrong guy."

“And here you turn yourself in after driving off two states away from attending a funeral?” he asked.

I gulped. I didn’t have any friends aside from what I lost in Ghostwater Springs. Lie or not lie. I’ll get fired.

“I did it for Vince’s sake,” I yelled with more vitriol than planned. “Look, every damn almost friend I ever made gets disappeared by shmucks like. . ." I grit my teeth before I said Schmucks like him, "Those idiots who think those people are evil like me, alright? The Autobots you work with are pretty smart, protective, and alright guys for twenty foot automatons from another planet. Other guys, like Agent Fowler, are just doing their job but the Government hoo-hahs that have been riding my butt pick on little kids and abuse their power for freaking fun! MECH keeps trying to get inside tips from them to keep tabs on me and your Government schmucks grease each other’s dang palms with MECH’s terrorist money!”

I took a deep breath, “I’m a cyborg, because I decided over my dead body seemed like a grand idea at the time! Three years ago I watched my home, no-no my _everything_ , get sucked into a giant black hole! Why? Leland Bishop had bought my invention to make it a bomb in Crown City or where ever the hell else he felt like."

I finally noticed I was standing up during my tirade.  The clock was ticking. General Brice traded a look with Agent Fowler. I plopped down into my seat with a huff. I took out a cigarette to light. My hands shook. The cigarette shuddered in my fingers.

"Sir, I made a dumb decision. I've made even more dumb decisions for the past three years," I reminded him.

“What are your credentials,” General Bryce asked, “Work experience for your resume.”

"Uh right," I gulped, "Credentials, let's see here."

I told him all of the universities that held my college degrees and certificates. I rattled off all of the street gangs I worked for by playing medical doctor so practicing medicine without a license or training . . . whoopee. I named off all of the street racers I’ve raced including Vince. I made General Brice promise to leave those kids alone and let the cops handle them. I was sick and tired of Government schmucks but I was applying to be a Gov’t Schmuck so shoot me. After all the usual questions and answers.

I asked, “What did you hire me for? Please be honest. I have nothing left to lose.”

“You have gotten very good at covering up evidence over the years,” General Bryce requested, “And the way you worked with the kids and their parents impressed Agent Fowler, particularly Raf, Jack, and Vince.”

“They aren’t fond of me,” I trailed off, “I mean Raf was just trying to help and went down with me. He nearly died. Vince drove forty eight hours fifteen minutes to punch me for lying. June is a mother bear, you don’t run from a protective parent it makes them bubble wrap their child. Jack’s already been through hell.”

“And we deal with that kind of hell every day,” warned Agent Fowler, “I’ve got scars down my chest from being electrocuted by Starscream. The ‘Cons think less of humans than we do of horse flies.”

My mind went back to thinking of Muster Cutter. The drone was just doing his job, so would be Bumblebee, but the Cybertronians didn’t act like bionics or cybernetics. They just happened to be people who started out cybernetic.

“There are not many defenses against a Cybertronian than another Cybertronian,” General Bryce added, “Your job is keep the humans from getting squished.”

I finally lost my ire in that revelation.

“And what’s keeping me out of prison,” I asked.

General Bryce turned to Agent Fowler to answer that question.

“Hey Grunge Doc,” Agent Fowler cued, “Why don’t you show General Bryce your special health condition.”

“I need a cigarette,” I requested. Luckily a guard outside smoked.

I fiddled with the wrist computer and as the vortex widened General Bryce slumped back in his seat. I took a long drag from my cig. Smoke wafted through the lung compressors. My organs heated up. The smoke huffed out of my rib vents in steamed up waves. Agent Fowler’s cheeks puffed up around his clenched fist throwing up in his mouth a little. General Bryce readied the trash can for his lunch. Gross puking filled the office. Agent Fowler swallowed back his almost puked bile in sympathy. I closed the wormhole.

“How are those guts not falling out!” General Bryce demanded.

“A force field of stabilizing particles.” I exclaimed, I tapped on it for emphasis, “It’s the same particles that stabilize the middle of the wormholes I make so that they don’t collapse on anything that goes through it. I have also added in precautions so that when any military uses it, it’ll only be good for medical practices only. I have underestimated the humans who’ll do anything to weaponize everything unfortunately. Those are the terrorists who killed my wife, my hometown, and the men I want brought to justice.”

“How about a test,” General Bryce offered, “These are the perps who have kidnapped June Darby at one point.”

I suppressed a scream. I remember Silas. I used his picture for a dartboard. The spiderwoman, and nasty looking femme? Yeah I think the female Cybertronian term is femme looked like an eldrich horror novel come to life. Jack Darby’s facebook page. Oh dear sweet Mother of Necessity.

“What a lovely couple,” I quipped mentioning Silas and the Monster, “Let me guess, Silas couldn’t find his match on eharmony and decided to branch out into . . . what’s the term. Arachnophelia? Robo-hentai?”

“MECH is targeting the kids to get to the Autobots,” Agent Fowler answered.

My blood boiled around MECH picking on Kids.

“Who else have they picked on,” I asked.

“First thing’s first what are you planning?” warned General Bryce.

I yanked a desk chair around to start typing away at General Bryce’s computer. A smile slithered across my five o’clock shadow. Crud eating grin around a half smoked cigarette. If I was going to be a Government schmuck than I might as well abuse the perks for a good cause. In the name of justice, honest. Yet I’d be lying to myself if I said I didn’t take pleasure in ripping Silas a new one by making him the fall guy under stalking, and sexual harassment.

 It took a few hours of paperwork and pretending to be the government agent tracking down a sexual harassment charge but I had fun freezing a few Terrorist money assets. Not big ones mind you, MECH has bit coin mines in China and Internet Service Providers in Sweden to get around the Net Neutrality and FCC Redtape. However, the social network is a powerful weapon and Encylopedia Dramatica is a hit list for trolls and white knights looking for someone to harass, Leland’s user name was Robot-overlord. I left his phone number there too. I calculate their internet crashing in hmmm three weeks. Not if Leland “Silas” Bishop gets banned first. Encylopedia drammatica took the internet stalking bait like a fish to water. Silas’ multiple accounts were starting to dissappear in a matter of days including Twitter, and MySpace. I was pleased.

* * *

 

General Bryce turned on all of the lights in the office. Agent Fowler knocked before he even heard, “Come in.”

“Permission to speak sir,” Agent Fowler requested.

“Granted,” General Bryce monotoned.

The Liaison shuffled in to take his seat.  Now that Grunge Doc was out of ear shot the two released a breath they didn’t know they were holding. Agent Fowler folded his hands. They rested against his forehead. General Bryce went through the paperwork.  Grunge Doc had a creepily in depth psychological profile of Silas. The rest of the paperwork was on Dr. Filbert.

“He’s dangerous,” Agent Fowler commented.

“Uh-huh,” agreed Gen. Bryce.

“For every crime he committed it was to save somebody else,” Agent Fowler continued.

“Yup,” agreed Gen. Bryce.

“But the way he goes about it is merciless,” Agent Fowler relented, “It scares me to think of how he’d treat the Autobots if they betray him.”

“Bill, Grunge Doc doesn’t have anywhere else to go but check out this report right here,” Gen. Bryce suggested.

A school photo of a buxom school teacher and her smiling husband surrounded by thirty kids. Some had hearing aids. One in a wheelchair. Several of them came from different nationalities. The newspaper article had a young man repairing toys and working real close to his wife. The wormhole device was a second article altogether.

_“My father-in-law died from an infection due to a clamp the surgeons forgot to take out. If there’s a way medical procedures can be done without making unnecessary incisions and bad guesswork than this is it,” quote Dr. Jaiden Filbert, “The army funding this for field medicine, even better! Our troops are sacrificing their freedom for our kids’ future. It’s a future my wife believes in and you know the old saying. “Happy Wife happy life.” The field medics will show what good this can do in the hospitals. So in a roundabout way we have warriors promoting World Peace. How much a twist is that?”_

The laughing young man from the Driver’s license. He did catch glimpses of him working with Bumblebee and Jack. The young man’s eyes twinkled. Grunge Doc’s cerise gaze was dead and lifeless unless peeved.

“Have you seen glimpses of this man within your intern?” Gen. Bryce asked.

Agent Fowler thought back to the sign language conversation Dr. Filbert had with Bumblebee. He wasn’t one for small talk and sensitivity going hand in hand.

“He’s been teaching Bumblebee and Raf American Sign Language,” Agent Fowler brought up. “Grunge Doc hates kids but he’s more patient with them than he is with most adults. His wife was a positive influence he lost.”

“Ratchet is the only doctor who can stablize him otherwise I’d have this saboteur working for me, you picked a real monster,” Gen. Bryce exclaimed.

“Yeah,” Agent Fowler mumbled, “I hope I don’t regret this.”

“Get him attached to the people here in this community,” Gen Bryce suggested, “Not teaching. He’s weird when it comes to some kids but have him shadow the Autobots on base then when he works for you send him to do errands around town.”

“Seriously,” Agent Fowler questioned, “I-I mean no offense.”

“Let me put it this way,” Gen. Bryce suggested, “We don’t always get what we deserve, such as oh say, a lawyer or former DA to handle the “Government schmucks” riding our ass, but sometimes we make do with what we need.  We need a second Liaison to keep the general public at bay and Dr. Jaiden Filbert is just dangerous enough to be that buffer while loyal to us he’s good. Now put that good to good use.  That’s an order.”

“Yes sir,” relented Agent Fowler. A part of him secretly pleased he’d done one thing right. The rest of him had mixed feelings because he didn’t know Grunge Doc well enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter just kept going and going and . . . We will be having lots of fun with Agent Fowler's intern. Vince and Muster Cutter will get more screentime next chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> I accidentally deleted this while trying to spruce it up.


End file.
